John Donne

Today is the feast day of John Donne, seventeenth century poet and clergyman.  In honor of him, and in observance of the season, I give you his Crucifying:


By miracles exceeding power of man, 
Hee faith in some, envie in some begat,
For what weake spirits admire, ambitious, hate;
In both affections many to him ran,
But Oh! the worst are most, they will and can,
Alas, and do, unto immaculate,
Whose creature Fate is, now prescribe a Fate,
Measuring selfe-lifes infinity to'a span,
Nay to an inch. Loe, where condemned hee
Beares his owne crosse, with paine, yet by and by
When it beares him, he must bear more and die.
Now thou are lifted up, draw mee to thee,
And at thy death giving such liberall dole,
Moyst, with one drop of thy blood, my dry soule.

-John Donne


  1. How can I not have ever encountered that wonderful poem? Thank you!

  2. I'm glad to know of this one, too!


Unnamed sources make me crazy. Just one time, I'd like to see, instead of 'according to unnamed sources,' I'd like to see 'according to tweaky little, ill-informed, chicken-ass, wannabe.'
-Abigail Bartlett, The West Wing