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 />Per fretum febris, by these straits to die, <br /> <br />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/hymn-to-god-my-god-in-my-sickness-2/
