The speaker addresses his own soul with terrifying immediacy, asking it to imagine that tonight is the world’s last night. He urges the soul to look closely at a mental image of Christ on the cross—tears in his eyes, blood streaming from his pierced head into his frowns—and asks bluntly whether such a face could frighten anyone. That tongue, which prayed forgiveness for his enemies, could never sentence you to hell. The mood shifts from dread to a quiet, reasoned reassurance. Remembering his past “idolatry” with profane lovers, the speaker once flattered them by claiming that beauty is always a sign of an inwardly merciful nature, while ugliness signals harshness. He now turns that same logic toward the divine: wicked spirits get horrid shapes, but Christ’s beauteous, suffering form proves his mind is piteous. The tight, almost legal argument feels like a whispered prayer, wrestling fear into trust through the sheer force of Christ’s loving, wounded face.
Holy Sonnet XIII: What If This Present Were The World's Last Night? — Summary
What if this present were the world's last night? Mark in my heart, O soul, where thou dost dwell, The picture of Christ crucified, and tell Whether that countenance can thee affright, Tears in his eyes quench the amazing light, Blood fills his frowns, which from his pierced head fell. And can that tongue adjudge thee unto hell, Which prayed forgiveness for his foes' fierce spite? No, no; but as in my idolatry I said to all my profane mistresses, Beauty, of pity, foulness only is A sign of rigour: so I say to thee, To wicked spirits are horrid shapes assigned, This beauteous form assures a piteous mind.