That Spectacle of Too Much Weight For Me...

Easter is approaching (sooner than we’re used to) and I was reflecting on a poem by John Donne, Good Friday, 1613, Riding Westward.  One of the great things about teaching English is that you get the opportunity to read and study a range texts, and usually ones that you wouldn't necessarily look at.  I’ve always felt that this is quite a poignant poem and, for me, I find it particularly moving where the speaker asks, “Could I behold those hands, which span the poles/And tune all spheres at once, pierced with those holes”, to grasp “that spectacle of too much weight for me".   I’ve just provided some of the poem here.  I hope it helps you to reflect on Good Friday the day where “we see God die”.

 

Good Friday, 1613, Riding Westward

by John Donne

…Hence is't, that I am carried towards the west,

This day, when my soul's form bends to the East.

There I should see a Sun by rising set,

And by that setting endless day beget.

But that Christ on His cross did rise and fall,

Sin had eternally benighted all.

Yet dare I almost be glad, I do not see

That spectacle of too much weight for me.

Who sees God’s face, that is self-life, must die;

What a death were it then to see God die?

It made His own lieutenant, Nature, shrink,

It made His footstool crack, and the sun wink.

Could I behold those hands, which span the poles

And tune all spheres at once, pierced with those holes?

Could I behold that endless height, which is

Zenith to us and our antipodes,

Humbled below us? Or that blood, which is

The seat of all our soul's, if not of His,

Made dirt of dust, or that flesh which was worn

By God for His apparel, ragg'd and torn?

If on these things I durst not look, durst I

On His distressed Mother cast mine eye,

Who was God's partner here, and furnish'd thus

Half of that sacrifice which ransom'd us?

Though these things as I ride be from mine eye,

They're present yet unto my memory,

For that looks towards them; and Thou look'st towards me,

O Saviour, as Thou hang'st upon the tree.

I turn my back to thee but to receive

Corrections till Thy mercies bid Thee leave.

O think me worth Thine anger, punish me,

Burn off my rust, and my deformity;

Restore Thine image, so much, by Thy grace,

That Thou mayst know me, and I'll turn my face.