A Poem for Good Friday

In order to honor Easter weekend, I though it would be good to have a poem each day for Good Friday, Holy Saturday, and Easter Sunday. Today's poem is John Donne's "Good Friday, 1613: Riding Westward." I offer it with (blessedly) little commentary.

Let mans Soule be a Spheare, and then, in this, 

The intelligence that moves, devotion is, 

And as the other Spheares, by being growne 

Subject to forraigne motion, lose their owne, 

And being by others hurried every day, 

Scarce in a yeare their naturall forme obey: 

Pleasure or businesse, so, our Soules admit 

For their first mover, and are whirld by it. 

Hence is't, that I am carryed towards the West 

This day, when my Soules forme bends toward the East. 

There I should see a Sunne, by rising set, 

And by that setting endlesse day beget; 

But that Christ on this Crosse, did rise and fall, 

Sinne had eternally benighted all. 

Yet dare I'almost be glad, I do not see 

That spectacle of too much weight for mee. 

Who sees Gods face, that is selfe life, must dye; 

What a death were it then to see God dye? 

It made his owne Lieutenant Nature shrinke, 

It made his footstoole crack, and the Sunne winke. 

Could I behold those hands which span the Poles, 

And tune all spheares at once peirc'd with those holes? 

Could I behold that endlesse height which is 

Zenith to us, and our Antipodes, 

Humbled below us? or that blood which is 

The seat of all our Soules, if not of his, 

Made durt of dust, or that flesh which was worne 

By God, for his apparell, rag'd, and torne? 

If on these things I durst not looke, durst I 

Upon his miserable mother cast mine eye, 

Who was Gods partner here, and furnish'd thus 

Halfe of that Sacrifice, which ransom'd us? 

Though these things, as I ride, be from mine eye, 

They'are present yet unto my memory, 

For that looks towards them; and thou look'st towards mee, 

O Saviour, as thou hang'st upon the tree; 

I turne my backe to thee, but to receive 

Corrections, till thy mercies bid thee leave. 

O thinke mee worth thine anger, punish mee, 

Burne off my rusts, and my deformity, 

Restore thine Image, so much, by thy grace, 

That thou may'st know mee, and I'll turne my face. 

The conceit at the poem's beginning (and Donne was all about poetic conceits) is that he is like a heavenly body that is out of sync with the motion it should follow, being instead "subject to foreign motions." So, too, Donne, whose thoughts are focused to the east (presumably Jerusalem and the site of the crucifixion) is riding west and away from the place his motions ought to take him. He then moves into a paradox of the place of the sun's rising being linked to Christ's rising and falling and the now "endless day" that we get to live through on the other side of the cross. 

One of my problems with Donne as a poet is that he often feels cold to me. It is all very well and good, immensely talented poetically speaking, but his poetry often feels less like an expression of deep sentiment and more like a guy good at faking it and being awesome. The initial conceit and the paradox of the rising and falling fit into that for me. The poem shifts once Donne moves beyond this and begins reflecting on what it must have been to see God die. The two best lines in the poem, per my preference, are "Who sees God's face, that is self life, must die; / What a death were it then to see God die?". There is no relief for the eye in beholding this scene of death and therefore the poet looks away. The rest of the poem focuses on this averted gaze. 

Donne's characteristic strong language returns in the final ten lines as the poet demands God's overwhelming intervention in order that he can turn back and view Christ. Donne turns his back to "receive corrections," to be whipped. He wants to be worthy of God's chastisement, to be burned of his dross, to have his deformed image restored to its intended perfection, and be able to turn and face his Savior. Donne is utterly aware that this is all a matter of grace. It is grace, after all, to receive discipline from the Lord (Hebrews 12:4-12). 

It is a beautiful poem that finds its heart as it goes on. I couldn't help but thinking of the Mel Gibson movie The Passion of the Christ as I read it this year. The desire to look away. Part of this impulse is obviously due to the fact that the act of crucifixion is revolting and horrific to behold. But part of the impulse stems from the fact of our complicity in this act. We look away because our own impurity is exposed. And since to look on and believe in the Savior as he is lifted up is to be saved, so by grace we need to be cleansed in order to turn back our ashamed eyes and gaze upon our Savior.

Have a blessed Good Friday.