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Humiliation is the beginning of sanctification.

John Donne

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John Donne
Died: 1631
Died: March 31
Lawyer
Pastor
Poet
Politician
Songwriter
Translator
Writer
London
England
Very Rev. John Donne
Sanctification
Humiliation
Beginning

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As virtuous men pass mildly away, and whisper to their souls to go, whilst some of their sad friends do say, the breath goes now, and some say no.
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Be more than man, or thou'rt less than an ant.
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To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend, All is the purlieu of the god of love.
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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.
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The distance from nothing to a little, is ten thousand times more, than from it to the highest degree in this life.
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When one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language.
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All other things to their destruction draw, Only our love hath no decay.
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Wicked is not much worse than indiscreet.
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And swear No where Lives a woman true, and fair.
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If ever any beauty I did see, Which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee.
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And dare love that, and say so too, And forget the He and She.
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Men are sponges, which, to pour out, receive Who know false play, rather than lose, deceive. For in best understandings sin began, Angels sinn'd first, then devils, and then man. Only perchance beasts sin not wretched we Are beasts in all but white integrity.
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Licence my roving hands, and let them go Before, behind, between, above, below.
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we give each other a smile with a future in it
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In the first minute that my soul is infused, the Image of God is imprinted in my soul so forward is God in my behalf, and so early does he visit me.
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Twice or thrice had I loved thee before I knew thy face or name, so in a voice, so in a shapeless flame, angels affect us oft, and worshiped be.
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And when a whirl-winde hath blowne the dust of the Churchyard into the Church, and man sweeps out the dust of the Church into the Church-yard, who will undertake to sift those dusts again, and to pronounce, This is the Patrician, this is the noble flower, and this the yeomanly, this the Plebian bran.
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Without outward declarations, who can conclude an inward love?
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Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
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Oh do not die, for I shall hate All women so, when thou art gone.
John Donne