Rebecca is featuring poetry of this cross this week, being that Good Friday is soon upon us. I think this qualifies as a poem of the cross. It is the fifth part of John Donne's "La Corona." Corona means both crown and wreath according to the notes in my volume. I studied this poem in university when I took a course called "17th Century Non-Dramatic Literature." Donne was my favourite. This is called "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 man to Him ran,
But, oh! the worst are most, they will and can,
Alas, and do, unto the immaculate,
Whose feature Fate is, now prescribe a Fate,
Measuring self-life's infinity to a 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.
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