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by John Donne
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
John Donne (1572–1631) was an English poet and cleric known for his metaphysical poetry, blending intense emotion, intellectual wit, and spiritual insight.
John Donne must have felt the assurance of Jesus' and our resurrection, which is what I pray for those friends, believers or not, who have lost loved ones. Even with that assurance Death is threatening enough, but without it is only uncertainty and despair, Hemingway's "Nada."
The Peace of Christ to all.
Mike Aleman