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Poem by John Donne
By miracles exceeding power of man, He faith in some, envy in some begat, For, what weak spirits admire, ambitious hate : In both affections many to Him ran. But O ! the worst are most, they will and can, Alas ! and do, unto th' Immaculate, Whose creature Fate is, now prescribe a fate, Measuring self-life's infinity to span, Nay to an inch. Lo ! where condemned He Bears His own cross, with pain, yet by and by When it bears him, He must bear more and die. Now Thou art lifted up, draw me to Thee, And at Thy death giving such liberal dole, Moist with one drop of Thy blood my dry soul.
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