Below is a portion of John Donne's haunting poem, "Good Friday, 1613. Riding Westward."
If you're like me, you probably struggle to fully enter into and appreciate poetry.
Our time is too rushed. Our souls are too flat.
And there is far too much attraction to "worthlessness" (as the prophet Jeremiah puts it, 2.5) setting up camp in our hearts.
But this is worth the effort to slow down... read every line until it's well understood... & meditate upon.
You will be ushered into a serious-hearted joy. You will be brought into worship.
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.