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Poem by John Donne
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Oh my black Soule! Now thou art summoned By sicknesse, deaths herald, and champion; Thou art like a pilgrim, which abroad hath done Treason, and durst not turne to whence hee is fled, Or like a thiefe, which till deaths doome be read, Wisheth himselfe deliverd from prison; But damn'd and hal'd to execution, Wisheth that sill he might be imprisioned; Yet grace, if thou repent, thou canst not lacke; But who shall give thee that grace to beginne? Oh make thy selfe with holy mourning blacke; And red with blushing, as thou art with sinne; Or wash thee in Christ's blood, which hath this might That being red, it dyes red soules to white.
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