“THE PASSION” – by George Herbert

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

That when sin spies so many foes,
Thy whips, thy nails, thy wounds, thy 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 thy grace;
Lest sin take courage and return,
And all the writings blot or burn.

Church-Musick

SWEETEST of sweets, I thank you when displeasure
Did through my body wound my minde,
You took me thence ; and in your house of pleasure
A daintie lodging me assign'd.

Now I in you without a bodie move,
Rising and falling with your wings :
We both together sweetly live and love,
Yet say sometimes, God help poore Kings.

Comfort, 'Ile ; for if you poste from me,
Sure I shall do so, and much more :
But if I travell in your companie,
You know the way to heavens doore.

--George Herbert

"Here was a man who seemed to me to excel all the authors
I had read in conveying the very quality of life as we live it
from moment to moment, but the wretched fellow, instead
of doing it all directly, insisted on mediating it through
what I still would have called the "Christian mythology."
The upshot of it all could nearly be expressed, "Christians
are wrong, but all the rest are bores."
-C. S. Lewis

Pange Lingua

Sing, my tongue, the Savior's glory,
of His flesh the mystery sing;
of the Blood, all price exceeding,
shed by our immortal King,
destined, for the world's redemption,
from a noble womb to spring.

Of a pure and spotless Virgin
born for us on earth below,
He, as Man, with man conversing,
stayed, the seeds of truth to sow;
then He closed in solemn order
wondrously His life of woe.

On the night of that Last Supper,
seated with His chosen band,
He the Pascal victim eating,
first fulfills the Law's command;
then as Food to His Apostles
gives Himself with His own hand.

To the everlasting Father,
and the Son who reigns on high,
with the Holy Ghost proceeding
forth from Each eternally,
be salvation, honor, blessing,
might and endless majesty.
Amen. Alleluia.

--St. Thomas Aquinas (1225-1274) for the Feast of Corpus Christi (now called the Solemnity of the Holy Body and Blood of Christ).

Milton in Church

Milton in Church
But let my due feet never fail
To walk the studious cloister's pale,
And love the high-embowèd roof,
With antique pillars massy proof,
And storied windows richly dight
Casting a dim religious light.

There let the pealing organ blow
To the full-voiced quire below
In service high and anthems clear,
As may with sweetness, through mine ear,
Dissolve me into ecstasies,
And bring all Heaven before mine eyes.

The Agonie

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)

Why Should Cross and Trial Grieve Me?

1. Why should cross and trial grieve me?
Christ is near With His cheer;
Never will He leave me.
Who can rob me of the heaven
That God's Son For my own
To my faith hath given?

2. Though a heavy cross I'm bearing
And my heart Feels the smart,
Shall I be despairing?
God, my Helper, who doth send it,
Well doth know All my woe
And how best to end it.

3. God oft gives me days of gladness;
Shall I grieve If He give
Seasons, too, of sadness?
God is good and tempers ever
All my ill, And He will
Wholly leave me never.

5. Death cannot destroy forever;
From our fears, Cares, and tears
It will us deliver.
It will close life's mournful story,
Make a way That we may
Enter heavenly glory.

7. Lord, my Shepherd, take me to Thee.
Thou art mine; I was Thine,
Even e'er I knew Thee.
I am Thine, for Thou hast bought me;
Lost I stood, But Thy blood
Free salvation brought me.

Hymn #523 The Lutheran Hymnal
Text: Ps. 73: 23
Author: Paul Gerhardt
Translated by: composite, based on John Kelly, 1867
Titled: Warum sollt' ich mich denn graemen
Composer: Johann G. Ebeling, 1666
Tune: Warum sollt' ich mich denn graemen

Four Preludes on the Playthings of the Wind

Here Sandburg gives us a somewhat uncomfortable perspective on reality. The language is nothing if not straightforward, and the meditation seems to come straight from Ecclesiastes: "Vanity, all is vanity." As Christians, our focus is to be "on things above, not on things of the earth"--items that become the "playthings of the wind." Christ Himself urges us to "lay up treasures in Heaven, where moth and rust do not corrupt, and thieves do not break through and steal." What are your treasures?

"The Past Is a Bucket of Ashes"
1
The woman named Tomorrow
sits with a hairpin in her teeth
and takes her time
and does her hair the way she wants it
and fastens at last the last braid and coil
and puts the hairpin where it belongs
and turns and drawls: Well, what of it?
My grandmother, Yesterday, is gone.
What of it? Let the dead be dead.

2
The doors were cedar
and the panel strips of gold
and the girls were golden girls
and the panels read and the girls chanted:
We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation:
nothing like us every was.
The doors are twisted on broken hinges.
Sheets of rain swish through on the wind
where golden girls ran and the panels read:
We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation:
nothing like us ever was.

3
It has happened before.
Strong men put up a city and got
a nation together,
And paid singers to sing and women
to warble: We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation,
nothing like us ever was.
And while the singers sang
and the strong men listened
and paid the singers well
and felt good about it all,
there were rats and lizards who listened
... and the only listeners left now
... are ... the rats .. and the lizards.
And there are black crows
crying, "Caw, caw,"
bringing mud and sticks
building a nest over the words carved
on the doors where the panels were cedar
and the strips on the panels were gold
and the golden girls came singing:
We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation:
nothing like us ever was.
The only singers now are crows crying, "Caw, caw,"
And the sheets of rain whine in the wind and doorways.
And the only listeners now are
... the rats ... and the lizards.

4
The feet of the rats
scribble on the doorsills;
the hieroglyphs of the rat footprints
chatter the pedigrees of the rats
and babble of the blood
and gabble of the breed
of the grandfathers and the great-grandfathers
of the rats.
And the wind shifts
and the dust on a doorsill shifts
and even the writing of the rat footprints
tells us nothing, nothing at all
about the greatest city, the greatest nation
where the strong men listened
and the women warbled:
Nothing like us ever was.

Carl August Sandburg (1878 – 1967)

Sea-Fever

I must go down to the seas again,

to the lonely sea and the sky,

And all I ask is a tall ship

and a star to steer her by;

And the wheel's kick and the wind's song

and the white sail's shaking,

And a gray mist on the sea's face,

and a gray dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again,

for the call of the running tide

Is a wild call and a clear call

that may not be denied;

And all I ask is a windy day

with the white clouds flying,

And the flung spray and the blown spume,

and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again,

to the vagrant gypsy life,

To the gull's way and the whale's way,

where the wind's likea whetted knife;

And all I ask is a merry yarn

from a laughing fellow-rover,

And quiet sleep and a sweet dream

when the long trick's over.

John Masefield

Go, Lovely Rose

I love this poem not so much for its content but for its incredibly clever use of language and metaphor. This is another poem that has lodged itself in my inner being through the medium of music, impossible to forget. Enjoy the artful, carefully crafted work of Edmund Waller.

GO, lovely Rose--

Tell her that wastes her time and me,

That now she knows,

When I resemble her to thee,

How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that 's young,

And shuns to have her graces spied,

That hadst thou sprung

In deserts where no men abide,

Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth

Of beauty from the light retired:

Bid her come forth,

Suffer herself to be desired,

And not blush so to be admired.

Then die--that she

The common fate of all things rare

May read in thee;

How small a part of time they share

That are so wondrous sweet and fair!

By Edmund Waller 1606-1687

"Loveliest of trees, the cherry now..."

My favorite CD, If There Were Dreams to Sell, contains a miniature setting of this Housman poem that I consider a half-carat masterpiece. Hint: Get the CD! Richard Hickox is the baritone, and the orchestral colors (especially oboe) complement the richness of his voice most beautifully. This poem always comes into my head at this time of year; Bryant doesn't understand why I'm compelled to stop in mid-stride (while jogging) and revel in the fragrance of apple blossoms. But, you know, apple trees only bloom once in the year! Then the blossoms are gone, not to be seen again until we're all a year older. Carpe diem!

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.

by A. E. Housman (1859-1936)

i thank You God

i thank You God for most this amazing day:
for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;
and for everything which is natural
which is infinite which is yes (i who have died
am alive again today, and this is the sun's birthday;
this is the birthday of life and love and wings:
and of the gay great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing
seeing breathing any-lifted from the no
of all nothing-human merely being
doubt unimaginably You? (now the ears of my ears awake
and now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

e. e. cummings

I Am in Need of Music

I just sang a beautiful setting of this poem by David Brunner over the weekend with a small choir; my brain continues to caress these lovely objects over and over.

I am in need of music that would flow
Over my fretful, feeling fingertips,
Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,
With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow.
Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low,
Of some song sung to rest the tired dead,
A song to fall like water on my head,
And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow!

There is a magic made by melody:
A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool
Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep
To the subaqueous stillness of the sea,
And floats forever in a moon-green pool,
Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.

by Elizabeth Bishop

At the round earth's imagin'd corners

At the round earth's imagin'd corners, blow
Your trumpets, Angells, and arise, arise
From death, you numberlesse infinities
Of soules, and to your scattered bodies goe,
All whom the flood did, and fire shall o'erthrow,
All whom warre, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies,
Despaire, law, chance, hath slaine, and you whose eyes,
Shall behold God, and never taste death's woe.
But let them sleepe, Lord, and mee mourne a space,
For, if above all these, my sinnes abound,
'Tis late to aske abundance of thy grace,
When wee are there; here on this lowly ground,
Teach mee how to repent; for that's as good

As if thou hadst seal'd my pardon, with thy blood.

by John Donne

Requiem Aeternum: Thoughts of Eternity

[God] hath made everything beautiful in its time: also he hath set eternity in their hearts, yet so that man cannot find out the work that God hath done from the beginning even to the end (Ecclesiastes 3:11).

A dear friend and former member of my church choir has quietly passed away after a long and painful illness. Blessed as one who has "died in the Lord," she now "rests from her labors."

Bryant and I paid a visit to "Laura" on Easter Sunday, and impressively, she recognized us and remained alert to converse with us for about five minutes before fading back into merciful slumber. I am so grateful we made the effort.

Nearly 4,000 years ago, King Solomon of Israel—styling himself "The Preacher"—offered the most profound thoughts on life, death and eternity the world has ever seen (yes, thoroughly eclipsing Socrates). His major philosophical work, Ecclesiastes, is categorized by biblical scholars as Wisdom Literature. The writing uses stunning metaphors and elegant, sophisticated poetic expression, making it a pleasure to read for one who loves language.

"The Preacher's" keyword is "vanity," (something that seems to have substance but disappoints) and he liberally applies this concept to all earthly values. Rather depressingly, he tramples into the dust our commonly-held ideas of what is important in life—reputation, possessions, family heritage, accomplishments, power, pleasure, mirth and joy—by pointing to the fact that these things ultimately perish, and there's nothing we can do about it. These are all good things with which to concern ourselves, but we need to view them in perspective and recognize where they belong in the grand scheme. Work as hard as you like to obtain possessions, says the king, but when you die, you permanently cease to enjoy the benefit of possessions. You don't even know who will inherit them. By the end of the book, we realize that this life is not about this life, but about the eternity beyond it.

So, does that mean we should "eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die?" Does it follow that we simply live for our own pleasure? No, because the decisions we make in our earthly life affect our eternity. I quote from Ecclesiastes 8:

Though a sinner do evil a hundred times, and prolong his days, yet surely I know that it shall be well with them that fear God, that fear before him: but it shall not be well with the wicked, neither shall he prolong his days, which are as a shadow; because he feareth not before God.

According to Solomon, the important things in life are walking with God, living righteously in the fear of God, and preparing to live eternity in the presence of God. He intends to remind us that our fleeting earthly life only takes on meaning in the light of Eternity. These are Solomon's concluding thoughts:

Let us hear the conclusion of the whole matter: Fear God, and keep his commandments: for this is the whole duty of man. For God shall bring every work into judgment, with every secret thing, whether it be good, or whether it be evil (Ecc. 12:13-14).

A Debtor to Mercy Alone

The author, Augustus Toplady, at­tend­ed West­min­ster School, Lon­don, and Trin­i­ty Coll­ege, Dub­lin. He was or­dained an Ang­li­can priest in 1762, and served as Cur­ate at Blag­don and Far­leigh. In 1766, he be­came Vi­car of Broad­hem­bu­ry, De­von­shire. He left the Ang­li­can church in 1775, moved to Lon­don, and be­gan preach­ing at the French Cal­vin­ist church in Lei­ces­ter Fields. His works in­clude:

The Doctrine of Ab­so­lute Pre­des­tin­a­tion Stat­ed and As­sert­ed, 1769
Historic Proof of the Doc­trin­al Cal­vin­ism of the Church of Eng­land, 1774
The Church of Eng­land Vin­di­cat­ed from the Charge of Armin­i­an­ism, 1774
Po­ems on Sac­red Sub­jects, 1775
Psalms and Hymns, 1776

A debtor to mercy alone,
Of covenant mercy I sing;
Nor fear, with Thy righteousness on,
My person and off'ring to bring.
The terrors of law and of God
With me can have nothing to do;
My Saviour's obedience and blood
Hide all my transgressions from view.

The work which His goodness began
The arm of His strength will complete;
His promise is yea and amen,
And never was forfeited yet.
Things future, nor things that are now,
Not all things below or above,
Can make Him His purpose forgo,
Or sever my soul from His love.

My name from the palms of His hands
Eternity will not erase;
Impressed on His heart it remains,
In marks of indelible grace;
Yes, I to the end shall endure,
As sure as the earnest is giv'n;
More happy, but not more secure,
The glorified spirits in heav'n.

Augustus M. Toplady, 1740-1778

None Other Lamb

I became familiar with this text last year when I sang a simple, yet stunning Crawford Thoburn setting with the Bach Chamber Choir. It fits well during Holy Week as we reflect on Jesus, the Lamb of God, Who died to take away the sins of the world. It is definitely one I plan to use again and again. This woman's faith in God is deep and real, bridging the sometimes awful gap between hope and experience.

None other Lamb, none other Name,
None other hope in Heav'n or earth or sea,
None other hiding place from guilt and shame,
None beside Thee!

My faith burns low, my hope burns low;
Only my heart's desire cries out in me
By the deep thunder of its want and woe,
Cries out to Thee.

Lord, Thou art Life, though I be dead;
Love's fire Thou art, however cold I be:
Nor Heav'n have I, nor place to lay my head,
Nor home, but Thee.

by Christina Rosetti (1830-1894)

A HYMN TO GOD THE FATHER

As the season of Lent is upon us, today being Ash Wednesday, I wanted to post what I believe is the most beautiful contritional prayer in modern English. Mr. Donne speaks for me here.

WILT Thou forgive that sin where I begun,

Which was my sin, though it were done before?

Wilt Thou forgive that sin, through which I run,

And do run still, though still I do deplore?

When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done,

For I have more.

Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I have won

Others to sin, and made my sin their door?

Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun

A year or two, but wallowed in a score?

When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done,

For I have more.

I have a sin of fear, that when I have spun

My last thread, I shall perish on the shore;

But swear by Thyself, that at my death Thy Son

Shall shine as he shines now, and heretofore ;

And having done that, Thou hast done ;

I fear no more.

by John Donne (1572-1631)

At a Solemn Musick

by John Milton (1608–1674)

BLEST pair of Sirens, pledges of Heav'ns joy,
Sphear-born harmonious Sisters, Voice, and Vers,
Wed your divine sounds, and mixt power employ
Dead things with inbreath'd sense able to pierce,
And to our high-rais'd phantasie present,
That undisturbèd Song of pure content,
Ay sung before the saphire-colour'd throne
To him that sits theron
With Saintly shout, and solemn Jubily,
Where the bright Seraphim in burning row
Their loud up-lifted Angel trumpets blow,
And the Cherubick host in thousand quires
Touch their immortal Harps of golden wires,
With those just Spirits that wear victorious Palms,
Hymns devout and holy Psalms
Singing everlastingly;
That we on Earth with undiscording voice
May rightly answer that melodious noise;
As once we did, till disproportion'd sin
Jarr'd against natures chime, and with harsh din
Broke the fair musick that all creatures made
To their great Lord, whose love their motion sway'd
In perfect Diapason, whilst they stood
In first obedience, and their state of good.
O may we soon again renew that Song,
And keep in tune with Heav'n, till God ere long
To his celestial consort us unite,
To live with him, and sing in endles morn of light.

Prayer

by George Herbert

Prayer, the Church's banquet, Angel's age,
God's breath in man returning to his birth,
The soul in paraphrase, heart in pilgrimage,
The Christian plummet sounding heav'n and earth;
Engine against th' Almightie, sinner's towre,
Reversed thunder, Christ-side-piercing spear,
The six-daies world transposing in an houre,
A kinde of tune, which all things heare and fear;
Softnesse, and peace, and joy, and love, and blisse,
Exalted Manna, gladnesse of the best,
Heaven in ordinarie, man well drest,
The milkie way, the bird of Paradise,
Church-bels beyond the starres heard, the soul's blood,
The land of spices; something understood.

Adventante Deo

By John Addington Symonds (1840–1893)

LIFT up your heads, gates of my heart, unfold
Your portals to salute the King of kings!
Behold Him come, borne on cherubic wings
Engrained with crimson eyes and grail of gold!
Before His path the thunder-clouds withhold
Their stormy pinions, and the desert sings:
He from His lips divine and forehead flings
Sunlight of peace unfathomed, bliss untold.
O soul, faint soul, disquieted how long!
Lift up thine eyes, for lo, thy Lord is near,
Lord of all loveliness and strength and song,
The Lord who brings heart-sadness better cheer,
Scattering those midnight dreams that dote on wrong,
urging with heaven’s pure rays love’s atmosphere!