Foul Divinities

At the round earth's imagined corners, blow
Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise
From death, you numberless infinities
Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go.

John Donne
Divine Meditation #7

Threads are reeling,
An ordered, twisting, circle wheeling,
An ancient writing restrained by haste,
Erring to fit within the skein;
And so well-proportioned whims are placed
By God, whom never tasted woe,
But war and dearth get past the strain
Set up so long ago, winds that wane
So skillfully, slow,
At the round earth's imagined corners, blow.

Then as my flesh
Persists, a last mile mesh
Of minutes - my life span's last inch -
So fall my sins that would press me
To hell, impute new fear as I flinch
From being cast from an earth-born guise;
Will not some righteous blood earnestly
Protect mankind? Whatever it be,
Do not let fly what denies
Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise.

Because what waste showers
Suffering! whose sighs are hours
The heart does rent;
An insatiable drunkard, imprisoned,
Might itch for different kinds of punishment
Or wash, being red, foul divinities
Called "effect" and "cause" - summoned
Sicknesses that no tears shed
May repent. Go toward tyrannies
From death, you numberless infinities

Of bones, a full felicity
Of mourning clothes iniquity,
But heaven's no slave to fate,
Chance, or desperate men,
What makes us sleep will not wait
For those it may easily overthrow;
It has always been unworthy, so straighten
Up! You are the chosen!
Do not babble of forgiving what you think you know
Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go.