I don't have much heart to blog right now, and I imagine the world will survive without my opinions for a few days. Instead here's John Donne's first Holy Sonnet, an appropriately Lenten poem. Since this is Shrove Tuesday and the day to be shriven, I'll make my confession: I hate Lent. I find it so miserable and not in a positive, growth-through-pain way - more in a 'nothing you do will ever be good enough and so what's the point' way. All talk about it is sounding hollow to my ears at the moment, but for some reason I can just about bear this poem.
Thou hast made me, and shall Thy work decay?
Repair me now, for now mine end doth haste;
I run to death, and Death meets me as fast,
And all my pleasures are like yesterday.
I dare not move my dim eyes any way;
Despair behind, and Death before doth cast
Such terror, and my feeble flesh doth waste
By sin in it, which it towards hell doth weigh.
Only Thou art above, and when towards Thee
By Thy leave I can look, I rise again;
But our old subtle foe so tempteth me,
That not one hour myself I can sustain.
Thy grace may wing me to prevent his art
And thou like adamant draw mine iron heart.