By John Donne
God hath made no decree to distinguish the seasons of His mercies;
In Paradise, the fruits were ripe the first minute,
And in heaven it is always autumn;
His mercies are ever in their maturity:
We ask our daily bread,
And God never says:
You should have come yesterday.
He never says,
You must ask again tomorrow:
But today, if you will hear His voice,
Today he will hear you.
He brought light out of darkness,
Not out of a lesser light:
He can bring thy summer out of winter,
Though thou have no spring;
Though in the ways of fortune or understanding or conscience
Thou have been benighted till now,
Wintered and frozen, clouded and eclipsed,
Damped and benumbed, smothered and stupefied till now:
Now God comes to thee,
Not as in the dawning of the day,
Not as in the bud of the spring,
But as the sun at noon,
As the sheaves in harvest.
All occasions invite His mercies,
And all times are His seasons.
From a Sermon preached upon Christmas Day, in the Evening, 1624