Hymn to God, my God, in my Sickness

Notice the blood dripping down on Adam’s skull beneath the cross.

Today is the anniversary of John Donne’s death (1572-1631). For that reason, and for a few others, I thought I would share this poem. He wrote it during a terrible sickness, possibly on his deathbed. It also seems fitting when so many are now facing the threat of sickness or death. And even if you are not sick, it is always good for a Christian to prepare for death. Finally, this poem also leads us to Christ’s suffering and death, which transforms our death and gives us everlasting life. This poem seems especially fitting then as we are in the final days of Lent, being led to Christ’s cross and on to the resurrection.

If you would like to hear me read the poem and offer some thoughts on the metaphors, you can watch my video HERE.

“Hymn to God, My God, in My Sickness”
By John Donne

Since I am coming to that holy room,
Where, with thy choir of saints for evermore,
I shall be made thy music; as I come
I tune the instrument here at the door,
And what I must do then, think here before.

Whilst my physicians by their love are grown
Cosmographers, and I their map, who lie
Flat on this bed, that by them may be shown
That this is my south-west discovery,
Per fretum febris, by these straits to die,

I joy, that in these straits I see my west;
For, though their currents yield return to none,
What shall my west hurt me? As west and east
In all flat maps (and I am one) are one,
So death doth touch the resurrection.

Is the Pacific Sea my home? Or are
The eastern riches? Is Jerusalem?
Anyan, and Magellan, and Gibraltar,
All straits, and none but straits, are ways to them,
Whether where Japhet dwelt, or Cham, or Shem.

We think that Paradise and Calvary,
Christ’s cross, and Adam’s tree, stood in one place;
Look, Lord, and find both Adams met in me;
As the first Adam’s sweat surrounds my face,
May the last Adam’s blood my soul embrace.

So, in his purple wrapp’d, receive me, Lord;
By these his thorns, give me his other crown;
And as to others’ souls I preach’d thy word,
Be this my text, my sermon to mine own:
“Therefore that he may raise, the Lord throws down.”

John Donne in his burial shroud, on his tomb in St. Paul’s Cathedral, London.