Good Friday Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis
Rhyme Scheme: A BCDDEEFFGHIIJJKKLLMM NNCCCCDDLLCCLKKKOOKK CC| Riding Westward | A |
| - | |
| Let man's soule be a spheare and then in this | B |
| The intelligence that moves devotion is | C |
| And as the other spheares by being growne | D |
| Subject to forraigne motion lose their owne | D |
| And being by others hurried every day | E |
| Scarce in a yeare their naturall forme obey | E |
| Pleasure or businesse so our soules admit | F |
| For their first mover and are whirled by it | F |
| Hence is't that I am carryed toward the West | G |
| This day when my soule's forme leads toward the East | H |
| There I should see a Sunne by rising set | I |
| And by that setting endlesse day beget | I |
| But that Christ on this Crosse did rise and fall | J |
| Sinne had eternally benighted all | J |
| Yet dare I almost be glad I do not see | K |
| The spectacle of too much weight for mee | K |
| Who sees God's face that is selfe life must dye | L |
| What a death were it then to see God dye | L |
| It made his own lieutenant Nature shrinke | M |
| It made his footstoole crack and the sunne winke | M |
| Could I behold those hands which span the poles | N |
| And tune all spheares at once pierc'd with those holes | N |
| Could I behold that endlesse height which is | C |
| Zenith to us and our antipodes | C |
| Humbled below us or that blood which is | C |
| The seat of all our soules if not of his | C |
| Made dust of dust or that flesh which was worne | D |
| By God for his apparell rag'd and torne | D |
| If on these things I durst not looke durst I | L |
| Upon his miserable mother cast mine eye | L |
| Who was God's partner here and furnish'd thus | C |
| Halfe of that Sacrifice which ransom'd us | C |
| Though these things as I ride be from mine eye | L |
| They are present yet into my memory | K |
| For that looks towards them and thou lookst towards mee | K |
| Saviour as thou hangst upon the tree | K |
| I turne my backe to thee but to receive | O |
| Corrections till thy mercies bid thee leave | O |
| O thinke mee worth thine anger punish mee | K |
| Burne off my rusts and my deformity | K |
| Restore thine image so much by thy grace | C |
| That thou may'st know mee and I'll turne my face | C |
John Donne
(1)
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About Good Friday
Good Friday is a poem by John Donne. This page includes the poem text, poet information, related topics, comments, and similar poems.
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