Season of the Soul: Love (III)

The Supper at Emmaus - Rembrandt - 1648

Luke 24:13-35

Love (III)
Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,
If I lacked any thing.

"A guest," I answered, "worthy to be here:"
Love said, "You shall be he."
"I the unkind, ungrateful? Ah my dear,
I cannot look on thee."
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
"Who made the eyes but I?"

"Truth Lord, but I have marr'd them: let my shame
Go where it does deserve."
"And know you not," says Love, "who bore the blame?"
"My dear, then I will serve."
"You must sit down," says Love, "and taste my meat:"

So I did sit
and eat.

Season of the Soul: Easter-wings

Noli me tangere - Lavinia Fontana - 1581

Jesus said to her:

"Do not hold me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father;

but go to my brethren and say to them,

I am ascending to my Father and your Father;

to my God and your God."

John 20:17 (RSV)

Easter-wings
Lord, who created man in wealth and store,
Though foolishly he lost the same,
Decaying more and more,
Till he became
Most poor:
With thee
Oh let me rise
As larks, harmoniously,
And sing this day your victories:
Then shall the fall further the flight in me.

My tender age in sorrow did begin:
And still with sicknesses and shame
You did so punish sin,
That I became
Most thin.
With thee
Let me combine
And feel this day your victory:
For, if I imp my wing on thine ,
Affliction shall advance the flight in me.

George Herbert

Season of the Soul: Easter 2007

St Paul's Anglican Cathedral, Melbourne, Victoria, Australia

Easter Service

Photo: Melanie Dove, The Age

EASTER
Rise heart; your Lord is risen. Sing his praise
Without delays,
Who takes you by the hand, that you likewise
With him may rise:
That, as his death fire burnt you to dust,
His life may make you gold, and much more, just.

Awake, my lute, and struggle for they part
With all your art.
The cross taught all wood to resound his name,
Who bore the same.
His stretched sinews taught all strings, what key
Is best to celebrate this most high day.

Consort both heart and lute, and twist a song
Pleasant and long:
Or, since all music is but three parts vied
And multiplied,
O let your blessed Spirit bear a part,
And make up our defects with his sweet art.

I got me flowers to strew your way;
I got me boughs off many a tree:
But you were up by break of day,
And brought your sweets along with thee.

The Sun arising in the East,
Though he give light, & th' East perfume;
If they should offer to contest
With your arising, they presume.

Can there be any day but this,
Though many suns to shine endeavor?
We count three hundred, but we miss:
There is but one, and that one ever.

George Herbert

Season of the Soul: Burial of Jesus

Burial of Our Lord from the Syro-Maronite tradition

Sepulcher
O Blessed body! Whither art you thrown?
No lodging for you, but a cold hard stone?
So many hearts on earth, and yet not one
Receive thee?
Sure there is room within our heart's good store;
For they can lodge transgressions by the score:
Thousands of toys dwell there, yet out of door
They leave thee.

But that which shows them large, shows them unfit.
Whatever sin did this pure rock commit,
Which holds you now? Who has indited it
Of murder?
Where our hard hearts have took up stones to brain thee,
And missing this, most falsely did arraign thee;
Only these stones in quiet entertain thee,
And order.

And as of old the Law by heav'nly art
Was writ in stone; so you, which also art
The letter of the word, find'st no fit heart
To hold thee.
Yet do we still persist as we began,
And so should perish, but that nothing can,
Though it be cold, hard, foul, from loving man
Withhold thee.

George Herbert

Season of the Soul: Good Friday

Stations of the Cross - 4

Jesus meets his mother on the way by Australian Aboriginal artist Miriam Rose Ungunmerr

GOOD FRIDAY

O my chief good,
How shall I measure out your blood?
How shall I count what you befell,
And each grief tell?

Shall I your woes
Number according to your foes?
Or, since one star showed your first breath,
Shall all your death?

Or shall each leaf,
Which falls in Autumn, score a grief?
Or can not leaves, but fruit, be sign
Of the true vine?

Then let each hour
Of my whole life one grief devour;
That your distress through all may run,
And be my sun.

Or rather let
My several sins their sorrows get;
That as each beast his cure does know,
Each sin may so.

Since blood is fittest, Lord, to write
Your sorrows in, and bloody fight;
My heart has store, write there, where in
One box does lie both ink and sin:

That when sin spies so many foes,
Your whips, your nails, your wounds, your woes,
All come to lodge there, sin may say,
No room for me, and fly away.

Sin being gone, oh fill the place,
And keep possession with your grace;
Lest sin take courage and return,
And all the writings blot or burn.

George Herbert

Season of the Soul: Peace

Jerusalem - City of Peace

PEACE

Sweet Peace, where do you dwell? I humbly crave,
Let me once know.
I sought you in a secret cave,
And asked, if Peace were there.
A hollow winds did seem to answer, "No;
Go seek elsewhere."

I did; and going did a rainbow note:
Surely, thought I,
This is the lace of Peace’s coat:
I will search out the matter.
But while I looked, the clouds immediately
Did break and scatter.

Then went I to a garden, and did spy
A gallant flower,
The Crown Imperial: "Sure," said I,
"Peace at the root must dwell."
But when I dug, I saw a worm devour
What showed so well.

At length I met a rev'rend good old man,
Whom when for Peace
I did demand, he thus began:
"There was a Prince of old
At Salem dwelt, who lived with good increase
Of flock and fold.

"He sweetly lived; yet sweetness did not save
His life from foes.
But after death out of his grave
There sprang twelve stalks of wheat:
Which many wond'ring at, got some of those
To plant and set.

"It prospered strangely, and did soon disperse
Through all the earth:
For they that taste it do rehearse,
That virtue lies therein,
A secret virtue bringing peace and mirth
By flight of sin.

"Take of this grain, which in my garden grows,
And grows for you;
Make bread of it: and that repose
And peace, which ev'ry where
With so much earnestness you do pursue,
Is only there.”

George Herbert

Season of the Soul: Sighs and Groans

Christ as The Man of Sorrows

Albrecht Durer c 1493

Sighs and Groans
O do not use me
After my sins! look not on my dessert,
But on your glory! Then you will reform
And not refuse me: for you only art
The mighty God, but I a silly worm;
O do not bruise me!

O do not urge me!
For what account can your ill steward make?
I have abused your stock, destroyed your woods,
Sucked all your storehouses: my head did ache,
Till it found out how to consume your goods:
O do not scourge me!

O do not blind me!
I have deserved that an Egyptian night
Should thicken all my powers; because my lust
Has still sewed fig-leaves to exclude your light:
But I am frailty, and already dust;
O do not grind me!

O do not fill me
With the turned vial of your bitter wrath!
For you have other vessels full of blood,
A part whereof my Savior emptied hath,
Even unto death: since he died for my good,
O do not kill me!

But O reprieve me!
For you have life and death at your command;
You are both Judge and Savior, feast and rod,
Cordial and Corrosive: put not your hand
Into the bitter box; but O my God,
My God, relieve me!

George Herbert

Season of the Soul: The Bag

The Bag
Away despair! my gracious Lord does hear.
Though winds and waves assault my keel,
He does preserve it: he does steer,
Ev'n when the boat seems most to reel.
Storms are the triumph of his art:
Well may he close his eyes, but not his heart.

Have you not heard, that my Lord Jesus died?
Then let me tell you a strange story.
The God of power, as He did ride
In His majestic robes of glory,
Reserved to light; and so one day
He did descend, undressing all the way.

The stars His tire2 of light and rings obtained,
The cloud His bow, the fire His spear,
The sky His azure mantle gained.
And when they asked, what He would wear;
He smiled and said as He did go,
He had new clothes a making here below.

When he was come, as travelers are wont,
He did repair unto an inn.
Both then, and after, many a brunt
He did endure to cancel sin:
And having given the rest before,
Here he gave up his life to pay our score.

But as he was returning, there came one
That ran upon him with a spear.
He, who came to us all alone,
Bringing nor man, nor arms, nor fear,
Received the blow upon his side,
And straight he turned, and to his brethren cried,

“If you have any thing to send or write,
I have no bag, but here is room:
Unto my Father’s hands and sight,
Believe me, it shall safely come.
That I shall mind, what you impart,
Look, you may put it very near my heart.

“Or if hereafter any of my friends
Will use me in this kind, the door
Shall still be open; what he sends
I will present, and somewhat more,
Not to his hurt. Sighs will convey
Any thing to me.” Hark, Despair away.

George Herbert

Season of the Soul: The bunch of grapes

THE BUNCH OF GRAPES

Joy, I did lock you up: but some bad man
Has let you out again:
And now, I think, I am where I began
Sev'n years ago: one vogue and vein,
One air of thoughts usurps my brain
I did towards Canaan draw; but now I am
Brought back to the Red Sea, the sea of shame.

For as the Jews of old by God's command
Traveled, and saw no town;
So now each Christian has his journeys spanned:
Their story pens and sets us down.
A single deed is small renown.
God's works are wide, and let in future times;
His ancient justice overflows our crimes.

Then have we too our guardian fires and clouds;
Our Scripture-dew drops fast:
We have our sands and serpents, tents and shrouds;
Alas! our murmurings come not last.
But where's the cluster? where's the taste
Of mine inheritance? Lord, if I must borrow,
Let me as well take up their joy, as sorrow.

But can he want the grape, who hath the wine?
I have their fruit and more.
Blessed be God, who prosper’d Noahs vine,
And made it bring forth grapes good store.
But much more him I must adore,
Who of the Laws sowre juice sweet wine did make,
Ev’n God himself being pressed for my sake.

George Herbert

Season of the Soul: The Son

Son of Man

Son of Man stuns Sundance

THE SON

Let foreign nations of their language boast,
What fine variety each tongue affords:
I like our language, as our men and coast:
Who cannot dress it well, want wit, not words.
How neatly do we give one only name
To parents’ issue and the sun’s bright star!
A son is light and fruit; a fruitful flame
Chasing the father’s dimness, carried far
From the first man in th’ East, to fresh and new
Western discov’ries of posterity.
So in one word our Lord’s humility
We turn upon him in a sense most true:
For what Christ once in humbleness began,
We him in glory call, The Son of Man.

George Herbert

Season of the Soul: The call

THE CALL

Come, my Way, my Truth, my Life:
Such a Way, as gives us breath:
Such a Truth, as ends all strife:
Such a Life, as killeth death.

Come, my Light, my Feast, my Strength:
Such a Light, as shows a feast:
Such a Feast, as mends in length:
Such a Strength, as makes his guest.

Come, my Joy, my Love, my Heart:
Such a Joy, as none can move:
Such a Love, as none can part:

Such a Heart, as joys in love.

George Herbert

Season of the Soul: The Elixir

THE ELIXIR

Teach me, my God and King,
In all things you to see,
And what I do in any thing,
To do it as for thee:
Not rudely, as a beast,
To run into an action;
But still to make you prepossess'd,
And give it his perfection.
A man that looks on glass,
On it may stay his eye;
Or if he pleases, through it pass,
And then the heaven espy.
All may of you partake:
Nothing can be so mean,
Which with his tincture (for your sake)
Will not grow bright and clean.
A servant with this clause
Makes drudgery divine:
Who sweeps a room, as for your laws,
Makes that and th’ action fine.
This is the famous stone
That changes all to gold:
For that which God does touch and own
Cannot for less be told.
George Herbert

Seasons of the Soul: The Sacrifice (6) - Conclusion

Agony - Geoff Todd, Australia

SACRIFICE

Shame tears my soul, my body many a wound;
Sharp nails pierce this, but sharper that confound;
Reproaches, which are free, while I am bound.
Was ever grief like mine?

Now heal your self, Physician; now come down.
Alas! I did so, when I left my crown
And Father’s smile for you, to feel His frown:
Was ever grief like mine?

In healing not my self, there does consist
All that salvation, which you now resist;
Your safety in my sickness does subsist:
Was ever grief like mine?

Betwixt two thieves I spend my utmost breath,
As he that for some robbery suffereth.
Alas! what have I stolen from you? Death.
Was ever grief like mine?

A king my title is, prefixed on high;
Yet by my subjects am condemned to die
A servile death in servile company:
Was ever grief like mine?

They give me vinegar mingled with gall,
But more with malice: yet, when they did call,
With Manna, Angels’ food, I fed them all:
Was ever grief like mine?

They part my garments, and by lot dispose
My coat, the type of love, which once cured those
Who sought for help, never malicious foes:
Was ever grief like mine?

Nay, after death their spite shall further go;
For they will pierce my side, I full well know;
That as sin came, so Sacraments might flow:
Was ever grief like mine?

But now I die; now all is finishéd.
My woe, man’s weal: and now I bow my head.
Only let others say, when I am dead,
Never was grief like mine.

George Herbert

Season of the Soul: The 23rd Psalm

The beautiful rendering of Psalm 23, above, is by Naomi Teplow who specialises in ketubot and illuminated manuscripts.

The 23d Psalm
The God of love my shepherd is,
And He that does me feed:
While He is mine, and I am His,
What can I want or need?

He leads me to the tender grass,
Where I both feed and rest;
Then to the streams that gently pass:
In both I have the best.

Or if I stray, He does convert
And bring my mind in frame:
And all this not for my dessert,
But for His holy name.


Yea, in death's shady black abode
Well may I walk, not fear:
For You are with me; and Your rod
To guide, Your staff to bear.

Nay, you do make me sit and dine,
Ev’n in my enemies' sight:
My head with oil, my cup with wine
Runs over day and night.

Surely Your sweet and wondrous love
Shall measure all my days;
And as it never shall remove,
So neither shall my praise.

George Herbert

Season of the Soul: The Cross

The Cross
What is this strange and uncouth thing?
To make me sigh, and seek, and faint, and die,
Until I had some place, where I might sing,
And serve you; and not only I,
But all my wealth and family might combine
To set your honour up, as our design.

And then when after much delay,
Much wrestling, many a combat, this dear end,
So much desired, is given, to take away
My power to serve you; to unbend
All my abilities, my designs confound,
And lay my threat’nings bleeding on the ground.

One ague still dwells in my bones,
Another in my soul (the memory
What I would do for you, if once my groans
Could be allowed for harmony):
I am in all a weak disabled thing,
Save in the sight thereof, where strength does sting.

Besides, things sort not to my will,
Ev’n when my will does study your renown:
You turnest th’ edge of all things on me still,
Taking me up to throw me down:
So that, ev’n when my hopes seem to be sped,
I am to grief alive, to them as dead.

To have my aim, and yet to be
Further from it than when I bent my bow;
To make my hopes my torture, and the fee
Of all my woes another woe,
Is in the midst of delicates to need,
And ev'n in Paradise to be a weed.

Ah my dear Father, ease my smart!
These contrarieties crush me: these cross actions
Do wind a rope about, and cut my heart:
And yet since these your contradictions
Are properly a cross felt by the Son,
With but four words, my words, Your will be done.
’n when my hopes seem to be sped,
I am to grief alive, to them as dead.

To have my aim, and yet to be
Further from it than when I bent my bow;
To make my hopes my torture, and the fee
Of all my woes another woe,
Is in the midst of delicates to need,

And ev'n in Paradise to be a weed.

Ah my dear Father, ease my smart!
These contrarieties crush me: these cross actions
Do wind a rope about, and cut my heart:
And yet since these your contradictions
Are properly a cross felt by the Son,
With but four words, my words, Your will be done.

Season of the Soul: Gratefulness

Photo of Sunset at The Nine Mile by Denis Wilson
GRATEFULNESS
You that have giv'n so much to me,

Give one thing more, a grateful heart.

See how your beggar works on thee

By art.

He makes your gifts occasion more,

And says, If he in this be crossed,

All you have giv'n him heretofore

Is lost.

But you did reckon, when at first

Your word our hearts and hands did crave,

What it would come to at the worst

To save.

Perpetual knockings at your door,

Tears sullying your transparent rooms,

Gift upon gift, much would have more,

And comes.

This notwithstanding, you still went on,

And did allow us all our noise:

Nay, you have made a sigh and groan

Your joys.

Not that you have not still above

Much better tunes, than groans can make;

But that these country-airs your love

Did take.

Wherefore I cry, and cry again;

And in no quiet can you be,

Till I a thankful heart obtain

Of thee:

Not thankful, when it pleases me;

As if your blessings had spare days:

But such a heart, whose pulse may be

Your praise.

George Herbert

Season of the Soul: Grace

grace calls god loudest 2001

by Therese Murdza

GRACE

My stock lies dead, and no increase
Does my dull husbandry improve:
O let Your graces without cease
Drop from above!

If still the sun should hide his face,
Your house would but a dungeon prove,
Your works night's captives: O let grace
Drop from above!

The dew doth ev'ry morning fall;
And shall the dew out-strip Your Dove?
The dew, for which grass cannot call,
Drop from above.

Death is still working like a mole,
And digs my grave at each remove:
Let grace work too, and on my soul
Drop from above.

Sin is still hammering my heart
Unto a hardnesse, void of love:
Let suppling grace, to crosse his art,
Drop from above.

O come! for You do know the way:
Or if to me You wilt not move,
Remove me, where I need not say,
Drop from above.

George Herbert

Season of the Soul: The Family

The Passover in the Holy Family by Dante Gabriel Rossetti

THE FAMILY

What does this noise of thoughts within my heart,
As if they had a part?
What do these loud complaints and pulling fears,
As if there were no rules or ears?

But, Lord, the house and family are thine,
Though some of them repine.
Turn out these wranglers, which defile your seat:
For where you will dwell all is neat.

First Peace and Silence all disputes control,
Then Order plies the soul;
And giving all things their set forms and hours,
Makes of wild woods sweet walks and bowers.

Humble Obedience near the door does stand,
Expecting a command:
Than whom in waiting nothing seems more slow,
Nothing more quick when she does go.

Joys oft are there, and griefs as oft as joys;
But griefs without a noise:
Yet speak they louder than distempered fears.
What is so shrill as silent tears?

This is your house, with these it does abound:
And where these are not found,
Perhaps you com'st sometimes, and for a day;
But not to make a constant stay.

George Herbert

Season of the Soul: Faith

Stained glass window: St Peter's Anglican Church, Glenelg, SA

FAITH

Lord, how could you so much appease
Your wrath for sin as, when man's sight was dim,
And could see little, to regard his ease,
And bring by Faith all things to him?

Hungry I was, and had no meat:
I did conceit a most delicious feast;
I had it straight, and did as truly eat,
As ever did a welcome guest.

There is rare outlandish root,
Which when I could not get, I thought it here:
That apprehension cur'd so well my foot,
That I can walk to heav'n well near.

I owed thousands and much more:
I did believe that I did nothing owe,
And liv'd accordingly; my creditor
Believes so too, and lets me go.

Faith makes me any thing, or all
That I believe is in the sacred story:
And where sin places me in Adam's fall,
Faith sets me higher in his glory.

If I go lower in the book,
What can be lower than the common manger?
Faith puts me there with him, who sweetly took
Our flesh and frailty, death and danger.

If bliss had lien in art or strength,
None but the wise or strong had gained it:
Where now by Faith all arms are of a length;
One size does all conditions fit.

A peasant may believe as much
As a great Clerk, and reach the highest stature.
Thus do you make proud knowledge bend & crouch,
While grace fills up uneven nature.

When creatures had no real light
Inherent in them, you did make the sun
Impute a luster, and allow them bright;
And in this show, what Christ has done.

That which before was darkened clean
With bushy groves, pricking the looker's eye,
Vanished away, when Faith did change the scene:
And then appeared a glorious sky.

What though my body run to dust?
Faith cleaves unto it, counting ev'ry grain
With an exact and most particular trust,
Reserving all for flesh again.

George Herbert

Seasons of the Soul: The Sacrifice (5)

" The Mocking of Jesus" 2005 - Sandow Birk

SACRIFICE

They bow their knees to me, and cry, Hail king:
What ever scoffs & scornfulness can bring,
I am the floor, the sink, where they it fling:
Was ever grief like mine?

Yet since man's scepters are as frail as reeds,
And thorny all their crowns, blood their weeds;
I, who am Truth, turn into truth their deeds:
Was ever grief like mine?

The soldiers also spit upon that face,
Which Angels did desire to have the grace,
And Prophets, once to see, but found no place:
Was ever grief like mine?

Thus trimmed, forth they bring me to the rout,
Who Crucify him, cry with one strong shout.
God holds his peace at man, and man cries out:
Was ever grief like mine?

They lead me in once more, and putting then
Mine own clothes on, they lead me out again.
Whom devils fly, thus is he tossed of men:
Was ever grief like mine?

And now weary of sport, glad to engross
All spite in one, counting my life their loss,
They carry me to my most bitter cross:
Was ever grief like mine?

O all you who pass by, behold and see;
Man stole the fruit, but I must climb the tree;
The tree of life to all, but only me:
Was ever grief like mine?

Lo, here I hang, charged with a world of sin,
The great world o' th' two; for that came in
By words, but this by sorrow I must win:
Was ever grief like mine?

Such sorrow as, if sinful man could feel,
Or feel his part, he would not cease to kneel.
Till all were melted, though he were all steel:
Was ever grief like mine?

But, O my God, my God! why leav'st thou me,
The son, in whom you do delight to be?
My God, my God ------
Never was grief like mine.
George Herbert