Holy Sonnet #6, “This Is My Play’s Last Scene”

by John Donne (1572–1631)

This is my play’s last scene; here heavens appoint
My pilgrimage’s last mile; and my race,
Idly, yet quickly run, hath this last pace,
My span’s last inch, my minute's latest point;

And gluttonous death will instantly unjoint
My body and my soul, and I shall sleep a space;
But my’ever-waking part shall see that face
Whose fear already shakes my every joint.

Then, as my soul to’heaven, her first seat, takes flight,
And earth-born body in the earth shall dwell,
So fall my sins, that all may have their right,
To where they’are bred, and would press me, to hell.

Impute me righteous, thus purg’d of evil,
For thus I leave the world, the flesh, the devil.

Holy Sonnet #10, “Death Be Not Proud”

by John Donne (1572–1631)

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou are 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!

Death Is but a Comma

by Gregory Edward Reynolds (1949–)

Death is but a comma in the sentence
Of life, which is not a prison, O no!
Every hardship has its recompense,
And Death by far the greatest seed to sow.

Yes, the comma is a hook, and has
A sting so sharp it seems at first to win.
But in his pride Death minimized the pass
The Son of God did make to throttle sin.

From dust to dust, appearances deceive,
And make us think that this is all there is.
Earth swallows all its victims, us to bereave.
But one Man raised from Death do not dismiss.

Death, you are but a sleep from which I wake,
My faith, my life, my soul, you cannot take!

Sonnet XXIX: When, in Disgrace with Fortune and Men’s Eyes

by William Shakespeare (1564–1616)

When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself and curse my fate,

Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;

Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
(Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven’s gate;

For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

Ordained Servant Online, September–October, 2026