Poem of the Week--A Tribute
2 Comments Published by Jason on Friday, June 30, 2006 at 6/30/2006 09:20:00 PM.
Although my "Poem of the Week" posts have become more like "Bi-Monthly Poems," I thought I'd post one today in memory of Randall Parks. It was around this time seven years ago that he died, and whenever I'm in Colorado, I think of him at some point. It's impossible in our finite knowledge to understand why God permits a tragedy like that to befall one of His people; it's definitely an instance in which we can only walk by faith. But thanks be to God that Randall is somewhere now where the streams are clearer, the pines greener, and the mountains more majestic than any in Colorado or anywhere else on this earth.
So, in memory of Randall, here's a well known sonnet by John Donne:
DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
So, in memory of Randall, here's a well known sonnet by John Donne:
DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
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