Poem by John Donne

Crucifying

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.

1. Holy Sonnet 8. If faithful souls be alike glorified
2. Holy Sonnet 12. Why are we by all creatures waited on?
3. Holy Sonnet 5. I am a little world made cunningly
4. Holy Sonnet 9. If poisonous minerals, and if that tree
5. Holy Sonnet 13. What if this present were the world's last night?

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