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 their
currents yield return to none,
What shall my
west hurt me? As west and east
14 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,
22
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."