The Violent Take It by Force

Reading a bit of John Donne (re-reading actually), and the imagery here never ceases to awe me:

O strong Ram, which hast battered
heaven for me,
Mild lamb, which with thy blood, hast
marked the path;
Bright torch, which shin'st, that I the
way may see,
Oh, with thy own blood quench thy​

own just wrath!

 

So who do you say the "strong Ram" is?

 

It's obviously Christ.

Here's the entire sonnet (in Elizabethan spelling because I'm too tired to edit it.)

Salute the last and everlasting day,​

Joy at the uprising of this Sunne, and
Sonne,
Yee whose just teares, or tribulation
Have purely washt, or burnt your
drossie clay;
Behold the highest, parting hence away,
Lightens the darke clouds, which hee
treads upon,
Nor doth hee by ascending, show alone,
But first hee, and hee first enters the
way.
O strong Ramme, which hast batter'd
heaven for mee,
Mild lambe, which with thy blood, hast
mark'd the path;
Bright torch, which shin'st, that I the
way may see,
Oh, with thy owne blood quench thy
owne just wrath,
And if thy holy Spirit, my Muse did
raise,​

Deigne at my hands this crown of​

prayer and praise.

 

La Corona

The sonnet I quoted is from Donne's La Corona, a series of seven interlinked sonnets modeled after the Franciscan Crown. It is some of the most beautiful work I've seen. I love it. I read it over and over. In fact, I preprared a little booklet to send as our Christmas card to certain folks last year. (Made a tri-fold card to send to others.)

http://thriftyplanet.net/aaron/La Corona.pdf

 

Crucifixion

The fifth sonnet in Donne's Crown. What a prayer! I pray this this morning.
​

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 Oh! the worst are most, they will and can,
Alas, and do, unto the immaculate,
Whose creature Fate is, now prescribe a Fate,
Measuring self-life's infinity to'a 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.