Commemoration of John Donne, Priest, Poet, 1631 He was the Word that spake it; He took the bread and brake it; And what that Word did make it I do believe, and take it.

What gnashing is not a comfort, what gnawing of the worm is not a tickling, what torment is not a marriage bed to this damnation, to be secluded eternally, eternally, eternally from the sight of God?

At the round earth's imagined corners, blow Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise From death, you numberless infinities Of souls **** All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance, hath slain.

God employs several translators; some pieces are translated by age, some by sickness, some by war, some by justice.

More than kisses, letters mingle souls.

All other things to their destruction draw, Only our love hath no decay.

Reason is our soul's left hand, Faith her right, By these we reach divinity