By miracles exceeding power of man,
He faith in some, envy in some begat,
For, what weak spirits admire, ambitious hate :
In both affections many to Him ran.
But O ! the worst are most, they will and can,
Alas ! and do, unto th' Immaculate,
Whose creature Fate is, now prescribe a fate,
Measuring self-life's infinity to span,
Nay to an inch. Lo ! where condemned He
Bears His own cross, with pain, yet by and by
When it bears him, He must bear more and die.
Now Thou art lifted up, draw me to Thee,
And at Thy death giving such liberal dole,
Moist with one drop of Thy blood my dry soul.

by John Donne

Comments (6)

This is a riveting narrative - told very well, and as you have an ability of minute observation Robert, it is told with personal detail which remains with the reader for long after the reading.Thank you - and the year 1915 means so much to so many that this has a universal appeal.... from Fay. with warm wishes.
You would be a great story teller Robert..oh! wait a minute, , , , YOU ARE! ! ! Love duncan X
Another excellent piece, it will leave the images spinning and swirling with the reader for a long time.. - chuck
I am mesmerized by this timeless poem, . It is extraordinary in every way. Beautiful work, Robert. sandra
This is admirably rooted in time and place and family and machinery - you have deep roots and inspiration, indeed. A noble and admirable poem - drawing on the particular to express the universal, as time wheels on. - Will
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