Poem of the week: Hymn to God, My God, in My Sickness - John Donne

Dear reader,

Today begins a new poetry aspect to my blog: Poem of the week. I've decided to read more poetry, and this little project should motivate me to do so on a more regular basis. So each Monday, look forward to another poem.

Today's poem is old-school, written in 1631 as Donne lay on his death bed. I hope that one day, as I lie on my death bed, this would be the hymn of my heart. There is no tragedy in his death; for Donne, death is truly swallowed up in victory (1 Corinthians 15:54). And then aside from content, he just writes insanely well - a true genius of poetry. I wish I could write like this.

Hymn to God, My God, in My Sickness

by John Donne

Since I am coming to that Holy room,

Where, with Thy choir of saints for evermore,

I shall be made Thy music; as I come

I tune the instrument here at the door,

And what I must do then, think here before;

Whilst my physicians by their love are grown

Cosmographers, and I their map, who lie

Flat on this bed, that by them may be shown

That this is my south-west discovery,

Per fretum febris, by these straits to die;

I joy, that in these straits I see my west;

For, though those currents yield return to none,

What shall my west hurt me? As west and east

In all flat maps—and I am one—are one,

So death doth touch the resurrection.

Is the Pacific sea my home? Or are

The eastern riches? Is Jerusalem?

Anyan, and Magellan, and Gibraltar?

All straits, and none but straits, are ways to them

Whether where Japhet dwelt, or Cham, or Shem.

We think that Paradise and Calvary,

Christ's cross and Adam's tree, stood in one place;

Look, Lord, and find both Adams met in me;

As the first Adam's sweat surrounds my face,

May the last Adam's blood my soul embrace.

So, in His purple wrapp'd, receive me, Lord;

By these His thorns, give me His other crown;

And as to others' souls I preach'd Thy word,

Be this my text, my sermon to mine own,

"Therefore that He may raise, the Lord throws down."