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The Holy Sonnets of John Donne: I. Oh my blacke Soule
Britten,Ian Bostridge,Graham Johnson
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O my black soul, now thou art
Summoned by sickness, death's herald and champion
Thou art like a pilgrim, which abroad has done treason
And durst not turn to whence he's fled
Or like a thief, which till death's doom be read
Wisheth himself delivered from prison
But damned and haled to execution
Wisheth that still he might be imprisoned
Yet grace, if thou repent, thou canst not slack
But who shall give thee that grace to begin?
O make thyself with holy mourning black
And red with blushing, as thou art with sin
O wash thee in Christ's blood, which hath this might
ย
That being red, it dyes red souls to white
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