Since I am coming to that holy room, <br /> Where, with thy choir of saints for evermore, <br /> I shall be made thy music; as I come <br /> I tune the instrument here at the door, <br /> And what I must do then, think here before. <br /> <br /> Whilst my physicians by their love are grown <br /> Cosmographers, and I their map, who lie <br /> Flat on this bed, that by them may be shown <br /> That this is my south-west discovery, <br /> [lang l]Per fretum febris[lang e], by these straits to die, <br /> <br />pmdv3 n='33-11'> I joy, that in these straits I see my west; <br /> For, though their currents yield return to none, <br /> What shall my west hurt me? As west and east <br /> In all flat maps (and I am one) are one, <br /> So death doth touch the resurrection. <br /> <br /> Is the Pacific Sea my home? Or are <br /> The eastern riches? Is Jerusalem? <br /> Anyan, and Magellan, and Gibraltar, <br /> All straits, and none but straits, are ways to them, <br /> Whether where Japhet dwelt, or Cham, or Shem. <br /> <br /> We think that Paradise and Calvary, <br /> Christ's cross, and Adam's tree, stood in one place; <br /> Look, Lord, and find both Adams met in me; <br /> As the first Adam's sweat surrounds my face, <br /> May the last Adam's blood my soul embrace. <br /> <br /> So, in his purple wrapp'd, receive me, Lord; <br /> By these his thorns, give me his other crown; <br /> And as to others' souls I preach'd thy word, <br /> Be this my text, my sermon to mine own: <br /> 'Therefore that he may raise, the Lord throws down.'<br /><br />John Donne<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/hym-to-god-my-god-in-my-sickness/
