Britten: The Holy Sonnets Of John Donne, Op. 35: 1. Oh, My Blacke Soule!

O my black soul, now thou art summoned by sickness
Death's herald and champion
Thou art like a pilgrim which abroad hath done treason
And durst not turn to whence he's fled
Or like a thief which till death's doom be read
Wisheth himself delivered from prison
But damned and haled to execution
Wisheth that still he might be imprisoned
Yet grace, if thou repent, thou canst not lack
But who shall give thee that grace to begin?
O make thyself with holy mourning black
And red with blushing as thou art with sin
Or wash thee in Christ's blood which hath this might
That being red it dyes red souls to white