BY JOHN DONNE
death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more, death, thou shalt die.
This Holy Sonnet 10 always comes to mind on Easter morning. Sixteenth century pries and poet John Donne depicts death as a mighty tyrant who will not win. I have reduced death to a lower case word intentionally!
And so this Easter morning, we say
death you shall die.
Alleluia the Lord has risen, the Lord has risen indeed, Alleluia!