Rebecca Writes

Philosophers have measur’d mountains, Fathom’d the depths of seas, of states, and kings, Walk’d with a staffe to heav’n, and traced fountains: But there are two vast, spacious things, The which to measure it doth more behove: Yet few there are that sound them; Sinne and Love. Who would know Sinne, let him repair Unto mount Olivet; there shall he see A man so wrung with pains, that all his hair, His skinne, his garments bloudie be. Sinne is that presse and vice, which forceth pain To hunt his cruell food through ev’ry vein. Who knows not Love, let him assay And taste that juice, which on the crosse a pike Did set again abroach; then let him say If ever he did taste the like. Love in that liquour sweet and most divine, Which my God feels as bloud; but I, as wine.

—George Herbert, 1633

More Poetry of the Cross

• Rosemary at Seasonings of the Heart: In the Cross of Christ I Glory
• Dorothy at Field Stone Cottage: By the Cross of Jesus Standing
• Candyinsierras has written her own cross poem: The Shift of Spring
• Updated to add two more: Dorothy (see above) had added one of her own poems, too—Salvation.
  
• And Kim of The Upward Call has posted Crucifying.
  

I

f as the windes and waters here below
                            Do flie and flow,
My sighs and tears as busy were above ;
                            Sure they would move
And much affect thee, as tempestuous times
Amaze poore mortals, and object their crimes.

 
Starres have their storms, ev’n in a high degree,
                            As well as we.
A throbbing conscience spurred by remorse
                            Hath a strange force :
It quits the earth, and mounting more and more,
Dares to assault thee, and besiege thy doore.

There it stands knocking, to thy musicks wrong,
                            And drowns the song.
Glorie and honour are set by till it
                            An answer get.
Poets have wrong’d poore storms : such dayes are best ;
They purge the aire without, within the breast.

—-George Herbert 

So far I have only one additional post to include in tomorrow’s weather report. (Thank you, Pam.) You can help make the next weather report fun and interesting by telling us what’s going on in your weather or posting a weather picture (or poem, like this one) and sending me the link.

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright!
The bridal of the earth and sky—
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;
For thou must die.

Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,
Thy root is ever in its grave,
And thou must die.

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie,
My music shows ye have your closes,
And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like season’d timber, never gives;
But though the whole world turn to coal,
Then chiefly lives.

 —-George Herbert

In George Herbert there is poetry enough and to spare: it is the household bread of his being. With a conscience tender as a child’s, almost diseased in its tenderness, and a heart loving as a woman’s, his intellect is none the less powerful. Its movements are as the sword-play of an alert, poised. well-knit, strong-wristed fencer with the rapier, in which the skill impresses one more than the force, while without the force the skill would be valueless, even hurtful, to its possessor. There is a graceful humour with it occasionally, even in his most serious poems adding much to their charm.  —George MacDonald

 

Sorry I am, my God, sorry I am,
That my offences course it in a ring.
My thoughts are working like a busy flame,
Until their cockatrice they hatch and bring:
And when they once have perfected their draughts,¹
My words take fire from my inflamed thoughts.

My words take fire from my inflamed thoughts,
Which spit it forth like the Sicilian hill.²
They vent their wares, and pass them with their faults,
And by their breathing ventilate the ill.
But words suffice not, where are lewd intentions:
My hands do join to finish the inventions.

My hands do join to finish the inventions:
And so my sins ascend three stories high,
As Babel grew, before there were dissentions.
Let ill deeds loiter not: for they supply
New thoughts of sinning: wherefore, to my shame,
Sorry I am, my God, sorry I am.

—-George Herbert 

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¹At Christian Classics Ethereal Library they define draught as

I’d think it more likely means “a current of air,” since, for one thing, the word is not used as a verb here, but a noun, and for another, Herbert is referring to starting a fire. What say ye?

² According to CCEL, this refers to Mount Etna.

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George Herbert poetry posted previously: 

• COLOSSIANS III. 3.
• The Flower
• THE SONNE
• SINNE
• CHRISTMAS
• LOVE-JOY
• PRAYER