Good Friday, 1613, Riding Westward, by John Donne

Good Friday

Let man's soul be a sphere, and then, in this
...
Subject to foreign motions, lose their own,
And being by others hurried every day,
Scarce in a year their natural form obey:
Pleasure or business, so, our souls admit
For their first mover, and are whirl'd by it.
...
There I should see a sun, by rising set,
And by that setting endless day beget;
But that Christ on this cross, did rise and fall,
Sin had eternally blighted all.
...
Could I behold those hands which span the poles,
And turn all spheres at once, pierc'd with those holes?
...
If on these things I durst not look, durst I
Upon his miserable mother cast mine eye,
Who was God's partner here, and furnish'd thus
Half of that sacrifice, which ransom'd us?
...
Burn off my rusts, and my deformity,
Restore thine image, so much, by thy grace,
That thou may'st know me, and I'll turn my face.

Have shortened a rather long, difficult for us 21st century folk, yet beautiful, poem about not daring to look directly at the Cross, and yet hoping God would so change us that we might, one day, turn our face.

The photo is of a window in our church this afternoon, as we sat in a wonderfully crafted service, full of good music and images, and readings - one of whom was my husband.

This morning, went on just the end part of a Walk of Witness on the Parade, with teenagers acting out the stations of the cross - they were excellent.

Had a blitz on the house (still a lot to do), and very glad to have no meetings tomorrow.