John Donne -- Death be not proud

Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,
For, those whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and souls deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleep as well,
And better than thy stroake; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.


John Donne (1572-1631), Anglican priest and metaphysical poet, writes these words, which may be familiar to many of us. This poem is usually studied in high school as a classic example of the sonnet. I post it here today as a reminder that Easter is not over. We may forget death is nothing more than a servant, so great its power seems to us, snuffing out our existence and tearing our loved ones from us.

Donne's words remind death that he serves a very limited role... servant to fate and chance, to kings and "desperate men" (i.e. murderers, brigands, etc.) In many ways, Donne reaffirms that death is around only because of sin, when he writes, "And dost with poyson, warre and sicknesse dwell," all of which are manifestations of the brokenness in relationships that Sin brings about.

And finally to bring death to its knees and put it in its proper role, Donne reminds death and us readers that there death is but "one short sleepe" after which we will live eternally... and death will itself die.

Alleluia! Christ is risen!