Death, Be Not Proud

Death surrounds us. It envelopes us like the heavy air of an August evening. From the moment we are born, the countdown has begun. We are all aware of the undeniable certainty that all things that live must die.

Death comes in and out of our lives, never ceasing to remind us of our own mortality. Remember that pet when you were a kid? Maybe your grandparents? Your parents? A trusted old friend? Maybe the specter of death has even approached you! Maybe you have realized just how temporal this "mortal coil" really is. Yes, Death wants us to know how powerful he is, that one day, no matter how hard we fight, no matter what we do, he will come calling for us.

Two thousand years ago, Death came calling on a hill in Jerusalem, Golgotha. It seemed like another victory, as Death followed the victim to the tomb. The tomb belonged to Joseph of Arimathea, but Death craved the body inside, a man known as Jesus of Nazareth. But this was no ordinary man; this was the Son of God. Unlike with every other man who has or ever will live, Death could not claim Jesus. He had power over the grave.

Today, we can share in that power. We can celebrate the fact that His followers found an empty tomb. We celebrate that angel's victorious words: "Why do you seek the living among the dead?" We can celebrate because Jesus' victory wasn't for Him, but for us. Because He lives, I do...and so do you! As Christians, we can be thankful that when Death comes for us, Jesus will be there waiting, saying, "You can't have this one. He's mine. I paid for him with with my blood. He is ransomed."


John Donne

72. "Death be not proud, though some have called thee"

DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,

For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,

Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
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Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,

Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.

Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
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And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,

And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;

One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,

And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

Hallelujah!