HOLY SONNETS (vi)
By John Donne (1572 – 1631)
Batter my heart, three-person’d God; for, you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise, and stand, o’erthrow me, and bend
Your force, to break, blow, burn and make me new.
I, like an usurped town, to another due,
Labour to admit you, but O, to no end.
Reason, your viceroy to me, me should defend,
But is captiv’d, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,
But am beroth’d unto your enemy:
Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.
In The Oxford Book of Christian Verse. D. Cecil, ed. (Clarendon Press 1940), p 87.
By George Herbert (1593 – 1633)
Immortal Heat, O let they greater flame
Attract the lesser to it: Let those fires,
Which shall consume the world, first make it tame,
And kindle in our hearts such true desires,
As may consume our lusts, and make thee way.
Then shall our hearts pant [for] thee; then shall our brain
All her inventions on thine Altar lay,
And there in hymns send back thy fire again.
Our eyes shall see thee, which before saw dust;
Dust blown by wit, till that they both were blind:
Thou shalt recover all they goods in kind,
Who wert disseized by usurping lust:
All knees shall bow to thee, all wits shall rise,
And praise him who did make and mend our eyes.
In The One Year Book of Poetry. P. Comfort and D Partner, ed.s (Tyndale House Pub.s 1999), Feb. 14.
“BUT ART THOU COME, DEAR SAVIOR?”
But art Thou come, dear Saviour? hath Thy love
Thus made Thee stoop, and leave Thy throne above
Thy lofty heavens, and thus Thyself to dress
In dust to visit mortals? Could no less
A condescension serve? and after all
The mean reception of a cratch and stall?
Dear Lord, I’ll fetch Thee thence! I have a room
(‘Tis poor, but ’tis my best) if Thou wilt come
Within so small a cell, where I would fain
Mine and the world’s Redeemer entertain,
I mean, my heart: ’tis sluttish, I confess,
And will not mend Thy lodging, Lord, unless
Thou send before Thy harbinger, I mean
Thy pure and purging Grace, to make it clean
And sweep its nasty corners; then I’ll try
to wash it also with a weeping eye.
And when ’tis swept and wash’d, I then will go
And, with Thy leave, I’ll fetch some flowers that grow
In Thine own garden, Faith and Love, to Thee;
With these I’ll dress it up, and these shall be
My rosemary and bays. Yet when my best
Is done, the room’s not fit for such a guest.
But here’s the cure; Thy presence, Lord, alone
Will make a stall a court, a cratch a throne.
In The Oxford Book of Christian Verse. D. Cecil, ed. (Clarendon Press 1940), pp 260-261.