George Herbert Sunday

I was feeling like George Herbert (or feeling like I imagine George Herbert felt at times, and wishing I was really more like him) today during church. And so after break the fast, I lay on my bed, pulled my Norton down from the shelf and read George Herbert's poems for a couple hours. One word: Beautiful. Please read this poem. The first three stanzas talk about writing the song, and the last three are the hymn itself. I love it on so many different levels.

Easter

Rise, heart; thy Lord is risen. Sing his praise

Without delays,

Who takes thee by the hand, that thou likewise

With him mayst rise,

That as his death calcined thee to dust,

His life may make thee gold, and, much more, just.

Awake, my lute, and struggle for thy part

With all thy 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 thy blessed Spirit bear a part,

And make up our defects with his sweet art.

I got me flowers to strew thy way,

I got me boughs off many a tree,

But thou wast up by break of day

And brought’st thy sweets along with thee.

The Sun arising in the East,

Though he give light, and the East, perfume,

If they should offer to contest

With thy 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.

(Syd White, via our group photobucket, cropped by me)