Immensity cloistered in thy dear womb,
Now leaves his well-beloved imprisonment,
There he hath made himself to his intent
Weak enough, now into our world to come;
But oh, for thee, for him, hath th’ inn no room?
Yet lay him in this stall, and from the orient,
Stars, and wisemen will travel to prevent
Th’ effect of Herrod’s jealous general doom.
See’st thou, my soul, with my faith’s eyes, how he
Which fills all place, yet none hold him, doth life?
Was not his pity towards thee wondrous high
That would have need to be pitied by thee?
Kiss him, and with him into Egypt go,
With his kind mother, who partakes thy woe.
Selection take from: John Donne: A Critical Edition of the Major Works, edited by John Carey; Oxford: OUP, 1990