|Jesus Weeping at Lazarus' Tomb,
painting by Jerry Dienes, (c) 1997
Death, Be Not
by John Donne (1572-1631)
Death, be not proud, though some have
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art
For those whom thou think'st thou
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst
thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy
Much pleasure; then from thee much
more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee
Rest of their bones, and souil's delivery.
Thou'rt slave to fate, chance, kings,
and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness
And poppy or charms can make us sleep
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more: Death,
thou shalt die.
Go to other poems by John Donne | A Hymn To
God the Father |