John Donne | Holy Sonnets | What If This Present Were The World’s Last Night?
What if this present were the world’s last night?
Mark in my heart, O soul, where thou dost dwell,
The picture of Christ crucified, and tell
Whether his countenance can thee affright.
Tears in his eyes quench the amazing light;
Blood fills his frowns, which from his pierced head fell;
And can that tongue adjudge thee unto hell,
Which pray’d forgiveness for his foes’ fierce spite ?
No, no; but as in my idolatry I said to all my profane mistresses,
Beauty of pity, foulness only is
A sign of rigour ; so I say to thee,
To wicked spirits are horrid shapes assign’d;
This beauteous form assures a piteous mind.
John Donne | Holy Sonnets | What if this present were the world’s last night?
The poem confronts the possibility of the world’s last night, situating Donne in a moment of existential urgency. The question is not abstract but immediate: ‘What if this present were the world’s last night?’ Donne directs the soul inward, urging it to consider the image of Christ crucified and assess whether his suffering face inspires fear. The poem explores the contrast between divine justice and mercy, questioning whether judgment should be understood in terms of terror or compassion.
The first quatrain establishes the setting. Donne does not look to external signs but to the heart: ‘Mark in my heart, O soul, where thou dost dwell, / The picture of Christ crucified.’ The phrase ‘where thou dost dwell’ suggests that the soul’s location is not separate from Christ’s suffering but intimately connected to it. The instruction to ‘mark’ implies contemplation, an inward examination. The final phrase, ‘and tell / Whether His countenance can thee affright,’ introduces the key question: does the crucified Christ inspire fear?
The second quatrain deepens the imagery of Christ’s suffering. ‘Tears in His eyes quench the amazing light’ presents a paradox: Christ’s divine radiance is softened by sorrow. The ‘amazing light’ suggests divine glory, yet it is veiled by ‘tears’—a sign of Christ’s compassion. This is reinforced by ‘Blood fills His frowns, which from His pierced head fell.’ The image is both one of suffering and overwhelming sacrifice. The next lines pose the central theological question: ‘And can that tongue adjudge thee unto hell, / Which pray’d forgiveness for His foes’ fierce spite?’ The implied answer is no. The same voice that cried for mercy on behalf of His enemies is not one of condemnation but of salvation.
The third quatrain introduces a personal reflection. ‘No, no; but as in my idolatry / I said to all my profane mistresses, / Beauty of pity, foulness only is / A sign of rigour.’ Donne recalls a time when he equated outward beauty with mercy and ugliness with severity. This confession acknowledges a past error: Donne misunderstood appearances, attributing harshness to what was merely unattractive, and gentleness to what was appealing. This misjudgment is now recognized as flawed, providing a lens through which to re-examine Christ’s suffering. The crucifixion, which might appear terrifying, should not be confused with divine wrath.
The final couplet resolves the argument: ‘To wicked spirits are horrid shapes assign’d; / This beauteous form assures a piteous mind.’ The contrast is clear: the damned are given monstrous appearances, but Christ’s suffering is ‘beauteous’ because it reflects divine pity rather than vengeance. The conclusion draws the poem’s meditation toward assurance—Christ’s suffering face does not condemn but redeems.
The poem unfolds as a theological reflection that moves from fear to trust. Donne begins with the assumption that judgment should be terrifying but arrives at the realization that divine justice, as embodied in Christ, is inseparable from mercy. The image of Christ crucified, rather than a symbol of wrath, is a reassurance of love. The poet’s recognition of his past misconceptions parallels the soul’s journey from misunderstanding to faith.
Psalm 75 is a hymn of praise and reflection on the righteous judgment and sovereignty of God. It opens with an acknowledgment of gratitude and thanksgiving to God, whose name is near, and whose wondrous works are declared. This psalm contains themes of divine judgment, the importance of humility, and the contrast between the wicked and the righteous [ … ]
Jesus’ teachings often challenged the worldly values and materialistic mindset prevalent in society. Jesus emphasized the importance of prioritizing eternal treasures over earthly possessions. One notable interaction occurred when a rich young ruler approached Jesus and asked what he must do to inherit eternal life (Mark 10:17-22, KJV) [ … ]
‘Death,’ says His Grace, ‘throws it all apart. For we are not as we should be. Faith requires our adjustment to God’s truth. God’s triumph in a very real sense requires in us the loss of our everything. Which, as with Mary at the other end of Jesus’s life, is God’s truth.’ The Gospel reading is of John 11: 1-45, which is a long passage, and His Grace’s homiletic theme commences in textual wilderness. Our brokenness – in this place – a family home. Our faith, our doubt, our death… The irruption – death, doubt, fear – within our precious scenes and our most intimate places. Our domesticity. His Grace speaks from the chair, as is a bishop’s prerogative, and says: ‘So much is obscure in the Gospels. We’re always reaching through them. We’re never there. Really, we never are. Our knowledge, our understanding, of the Gospels is never complete, and with each reading comes a new revelation. There are always new riches there. Just as there are between all of us, between myself and you. The Gospels are living texts. This is a part of the conversation we have with our own Christianity. It is a part of who we are in our relationship with Jesus. We are in this sense always on the brink. ‘So yes, there is plenty that doesn’t seem to make sense. As one of the order of bishops, we would be lying if we said that weren’t the case. They are not easy texts to encounter, if by that word we may signify something more than a superficial glancing off against, but rather a profound search for the word of God. The Gospels are written by people who had their own ideas, and often didn’t know what had really happened. Luke is quite explicit on this point. His is an investigation, from the explicitly claimed point of view of an historian, rather than that of a first-hand witness, who attempts, so he says, to set out an orderly account, out of the chaos, the sheer muddle, that has been handed down to him. It is possible to imagine Luke researching and composing his account after many years, when there has arisen a desire to know what exactly happened, and this implies a certain call to faith and certain demands of historicity, to historical exactitude. So in these different ways, the people of the first years of Christian faith are in the dark. There is also a decisive need to define the life of Jesus. And people didn’t get Jesus. The whole meaning of Christianity is only now beginning to take root throughout the composition. So much needs to be evangelized. The light shines almost in tentative fashion like that first star, which drew the wise men from the east to our Lord’s cradle. ‘John’s is widely held to be a very late Gospel. There are others who say that John’s Gospel might have been the first to acquire its true shape, because it most fully expresses Jesus, as we know him to be, as members of the Catholic Church. We don’t really know when any of this is being written, but we get a feel in John of a Gospel refined over many years, through a community. So there’s a lot going on there that I’d like you to think about. ‘What I would like to suggest to you is that, while within the Gospels we are often confronted with clues, guesswork, stories that have been handed down through so many people, and so in this sense we might find ourselves to be in the wilderness, this is the very desolate space itself to which we must give ourselves in order to experience Christ’s full redemption in our lives. I suggest it is for God’s glory that we do so. ‘As we become aware of ourselves, in this seminary, we find ourselves in a very secure, comfortable setting, and there are signs of Easter everywhere. Within the very fabric of these buildings, our Lord is risen; our Lord lives. But now this is our Lenten journey, where death enters, where death breaks us. We are to ride into Jerusalem in triumph, and then we are to be utterly broken, all hope gone, our hope extinguished. And really, I suggest to you, it is only by inhabiting this thought, as if we don’t know Easter is there, that our new life can follow, just when we have given up all hope, when every promise that Jesus made to us seems to have been cancelled. ‘And here now we have the story of Lazarus. I should like to suggest to you that we have a very powerful call now. In our very comfortable space, our domesticity, with all this comfort, where so very little might seem to happen each day, so it might seem to you, there is a disturbance within all of this comfort, and that is a disturbance within ourselves, and that is our call to Jesus. I think it is correct to say that our most comfortable places break in the light of Jesus from the inside, in order that we may take the necessary steps to be with Jesus. ‘Faith is not comfortable. I think that we can all receive the message of the rolling away of the rock from the tomb of Lazarus to say something of vital importance to ourselves concerning our openness to God’s love. The rock we roll away can come in all sorts of guises, but we know when we are blocked, and I firmly believe if we are truthful then we know where those blocks might be. ‘Next Sunday, which will be Palm Sunday, we process as it were to Jerusalem, to begin our Holy Week. Now as I speak to you we are on the brink. Even now, I suggest it might be very good for all of us to lay aside what we think we know, to fall apart a little, and so […]
