Twelve Days of Christmas Poetry: IV

Wilt thou love God, as he thee? then digest,
My soul, this wholesome meditation,
How God the Spirit, by angels waited on
In heaven, doth make his temple in thy breast.
The Father having begot a Son most blest,
And still begetting (for he ne’er begun),
Hath deign’d to choose thee by adoption,
Coheir to his glory, and Sabbath’s endless rest;
And as a robb’d man, which by search doth find
His stol’n stuff sold, must lose or buy it again:
The Son of glory came down, and was slain,
Us whom he had made, and Satan stol’n, to unbind.
‘Twas much, that man was made like God before,
But, that God should be made like man, much more.

–John Donne, from Holy Sonnets

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