Not a Catholic, but not too Shabby

For Christmas, my mom gave me a facsimile reprint of a Victorian reprint of George Herbert's poetry. Herbert, if you aren't familiar, was a 17th Century clergyman in the Church of England and a poet. He is one of the leading figures in what is called "metaphysical poetry" -- the lofty, usually religiously oriented stuff that uses unexpected or discordant metaphors for its subjects. If you were taught using a Norton Anthology, you probably read his "Bunch of Grapes" and spent most of your time trying to figure out how the footnotes relate back to the poem. Anyway, as a clergyman, Herbert spent a good bit of his verse contemplating worship...leading to the following poem on Holy Communion which could just have well been written by a Catholic priest. It makes me miss being able to get to daily Mass...

via http://www.ccel.org/h/herbert/temple/Communion.html

HOLY COMMUNION

NOt in rich furniture, or fine aray,
	              Nor in a wedge of gold,
	              Thou, who for me wast sold,
           To me dost now thy self convey;
For so thou should’st without me still have been,
	              Leaving within me sinne:

But by the way of nourishment and strength
	              Thou creep’st into my breast;
	              Making thy way my rest,
           And thy small quantities my length;
Which spread their forces into every part,
	              Meeting sinnes force and art.

Yet can these not get over to my soul,
	              Leaping the wall that parts
	              Our souls and fleshy hearts;
           But as th’ outworks, they may controll
My rebel-flesh, and carrying thy name,
	              Affright both sinne and shame.

Onley thy grace, which with these elements comes,
	              Knoweth the ready way,
	              And hath the privie key,
           Op’ning the souls most subtile rooms;
While those to spirits refin’d, at doore attend
	              Dispatches from their friend.

 

Give me my captive soul, or take
	       My bodie also thither.
Another lift like this will make 
	       Them both to be together.

Before that sinne turn’d flesh to stone,
	       And all our lump to leaven;
A fervent sigh might well have blown
	       Our innocent earth to heaven.

For sure when Adam did not know
	       To sinne, or sinne to smother;
He might to heav’n from Paradise go,
	       As from  one room t’another.

Thou hast restor’d us to  this ease
	       By this thy heav’nly bloud;
Which I can go to, when I please,
	       And leave th’earth to their food.

Comments

[angelicid.livejournal.com]

That is a pretty sweet poem. Working in a church does have its perks (daily Mass is as natural as lunch), but it's tricky to adjust to "working" on Sunday. :)