Thoughts on Low Light

I have read and contemplated much about the reason for Lent: I think Donne's poem puts it most succinctly. There are periods where we must strip off the wallpaper which garnishes our lives and get down to some serious internal housecleaning. In this poem (which is only partial), Donne reflects on the loss of his land and the gain he anticipates from departing all that ties him--and on what he anticipates to gain by going out of sight.

A Hymne to Christ, at the Authors last going into Germany (partial)

I sacrifice this land unto thee,
And all whom I loved there, and who loved me;
When I have put our seas twixt them and me,
Put thou thy sea betwixt my sins and thee.
As the trees sap doth seek the root below
In winter, in my winter now I go,
Where none but thee, the Eternal root
Of true Love I may know.

Seale then this bill of my Divorce to All,
On whom those fainter beams of love did fall;
Marry those loves, which in youth scattered be
On Fame, Wit, Hopes (false mistresses) to Thee.

Churches are best for Prayer, that have least light:
to see God only, I go out of sight:
And to escape stormy days,
I choose An Everlasting night.

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from A Hymne to Christ, at the Authors last going into Germany (partial) by John Donne

Strong Desires...

Regrets Only

My friend, you made so much of life,
and played through it with forced vivacity.
You turned a blind eye to all that which Life rests upon
but declared you’d embraced Life.

Do you remember when your success
became your virtue?
When did you begin to discount virtue
by counting its cost?

As your time was winding down,
you still stuck to your shuffling revelry,
till death’s draft swept the stupor
of your Long Life’s Party out the door.

Yet, there was a time you paused, my friend:
do you remember, near the end?
You asked me if you had it wrong
about the coming Chill?
I told you that
thinking sunny thoughts
never warmed a House.

-Charity Johnson, 2011

Barren Clay by Michelangelo

My unassisted heart is barren clay,
That of its native self can nothing feed:
OF good and pious works thou art the seed,
That quickens only where thou sayest it may:
Unless though show to use thine own true way
No man can find it: Father! Thou must lead.

• Michelangelo Buonarroti (yes, he wrote poetry, too)
  (translated by William Wordsworth)