Death, be not proud

by John Donne
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou are 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.

My sweet mother asked for years that this poem be read at her memorial service. And so I did. 

She would recite it to herself, (and to us), in the car, at the dinner table, while teaching, gardening, and so much more. We'd ask her to stop, saying it was unnecessary and frightening. Besides, we wouldn't need to know what to recite at her memorial service for years to come... how foolish we were. 

What better words for her children to know? This is what she believed. Now I am able to see that she wanted us to understand that, to grasp it, to know. 

So, Death, I say to you today, on this new and fresh morning, "be not proud" for you, "shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die!"

I sent this song to my mother during her battle.. today I sing it victoriously. 

Beatrice, I pray that you too will know no fear of death. May you live triumphantly singing praises to the living God who rules by His word. Hallelujah!