Selected Poems by George Herbert

[John Nyberg]

Church-Rents and Schismes:

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Brave rose, (alas!) where art thou? in the chair Where thou didst lately so triumph and shine, A worm doth sit, whose many feet and hair Are the more foul, the more thou wert divine. This, this hath done it, this did bite the root And bottome of the leaves: which when the winde Did once perceive, it blew them under foot, Where rude unhallow’d steps do crush and grinde Their beauteous glories. Onely shreds of thee, And those all bitten, in thy chair I see. Why doth my Mother blush? is she the rose, And shows it so? Indeed Christs precious bloud Gave you a colour once; which when your foes Thought to let out, the bleeding did you good, And made you look much fresher then before. But when debates and fretting jealousies Did worm and work within you more and more, Your colour faded, and calamities Turned your ruddie into pale and bleak: Your health and beautie both began to break. Then did your sev’rall parts unloose and start: Which when your neighbours saw, like a north-winde, They rushed in, and cast them in the dirt Where Pagans tread. O Mother deare and kinde, Where shall I get me eyes enough to weep, As many eyes as starres? since it is night, And much of Asia and Europe fast asleep, And ev’n all Africk; would at least I might With these two poore ones lick up all the dew, Which falls by night, and poure it out for you

​

 

[John Nyberg]

While the previous poem is a lament for the church, bewailing the schisms that divide and corrupt her beauty, this next poem offers a picture of beauty as it praises the Lord’s work in furnishing his church with gospel preachers. Those who are able to cause “consciences to ring.” Here we see Herbert’s use of extended metaphor at its finest.

The Windows

Lord, how can man preach thy eternal word?
He is a brittle crazy glass;
Yet in thy temple thou dost him afford
This glorious and transcendent place,
To be a window, through thy grace.

But when thou dost anneal in glass thy story,
Making thy life to shine within
The holy preachers, then the light and glory
More reverend grows, and more doth win;
Which else shows waterish, bleak, and thin.

Doctrine and life, colors and light, in one
When they combine and mingle, bring
A strong regard and awe; but speech alone
Doth vanish like a flaring thing,
And in the ear, not conscience, ring.

 

[John Nyberg]

The Pilgrimage


I travell'd on, seeing the hill, where lay
My expectation.
A long way it was and weary way
The gloomy cave of Desperation
I left on th' one, and on the other side
The rock of Pride.

And so I came to phansies medow strow'd
With many a flower:
Fain would I here have made abode,
But I was quicken'd by my houre.
So to cares cops I came, and there got through
With much ado.

That led me to the wilde of passion, which
Some call the wold;
A wasted place, but sometimes rich.
Here I was robb'd of all my gold,
Save one good Angell, which a friend had ti'd
Close to my side.

At length I got unto the gladsome hill,
Where lay my hope,
Where lay my heart; and climbing still,
When I had gain'd the brow and top,
A lake of brackish waters on the ground
Was all I found.

With that abash'd and struck with many a sting
Of swarming fears,
I fell, and cry'd, Alas my King;
Can both the way and end be tears?
Yet taking heart I rose, and then perceiv'd
I was deceiv'd:

My hill was further: so I flung away,
Yet heard a crie
Just as I went, None goes that way
And lives: If that be all, said I,
After so foul a journey death is fair,
And but a chair.

 

[John Nyberg]

I always loved the above poem by Herbert. It is a little like a miniature “Pilgrims progress.” We see Herbert tackle the many challenges faced by believers in this world. Yet the conclusion is surprising. The penultimate line is one of the darkest lines he ever penned: “After so foul a journey death is fair.” Very unlike the other poems on death (Death, Judgment, Dooms-Day) which all have a heavy dose of optimism. The final line is also surprising, less for its power as for its almost childish simplicity: “and but a chair.” Very understated, to say the least

 

[Stephen L Smith]

A number of years ago I frequently traveled through the village of Herbert in New Zealand's Otago region. I often thought of this song.

Let all the world in every corner sing,
My God and King!
The heavens are not too high,
His praise may thither fly;
The earth is not too low,
His praises there may grow.
Let all the world in every corner sing,
My God and King!

Let all the world in every corner sing,
My God and King!
The Church with psalms must shout,
No door can keep them out;
But above all the heart
Must bear the longest part.
Let all the world in every corner sing,
My God and King!

 

[John Nyberg]

A number of years ago I frequently traveled through the village of Herbert in New Zealand's Otago region. I often thought of this song.

Let all the world in every corner sing,
My God and King!
The heavens are not too high,
His praise may thither fly;
The earth is not too low,
His praises there may grow.
Let all the world in every corner sing,
My God and King!

Let all the world in every corner sing,
My God and King!
The Church with psalms must shout,
No door can keep them out;
But above all the heart
Must bear the longest part.
Let all the world in every corner sing,
My God and King!

Definitely one of the simplest, most beautiful hymns written in the English language.

 

[ADKing]

Herbert's "The Sacrifice" has long been one of my favorites. Such helpful theology embedded in beautiful poetry.

 

[John Nyberg]

Herbert's "The Sacrifice" has long been one of my favorites. Such helpful theology embedded in beautiful poetry.

That one is fantastic!
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My favorite lines from The Sacrifice are:

“These drops being temper’d with sinners tears
A Balsom are for both the Hemispheres:
Curing all wounds, but mine; all, but my fears”

 

[John Nyberg]

This next poem is an example of Herbert using the shape of the lines and stanza to add artistic expression to the poem (apparently a popular innovation in his day). It will not likely format correctly on here so here is a link to it: THE ALTAR


The Altar
A broken ALTAR, Lord, thy servant rears,
Made of a heart and cemented with tears:
Whose parts are as thy hand did frame;
No workman's tool hath touch'd the same.
A HEART alone
Is such a stone,
As nothing but
Thy pow'r doth cut.
Wherefore each part
Of my hard heart
Meets in this frame,
To praise thy name:
That if I chance to hold my peace,
These stones to praise thee may not cease.
Oh, let thy blessed SACRIFICE be mine,
And sanctify this ALTAR to be thine.

 

[John Nyberg]

For today’s poem I will share Herbert’s rendition of Psalm 23. This section of The Temple (the title for Herbert’s collected English works) focuses on the theme of anointing. In The 23rd Psalm Herbert pens

“My head with oil, my cup with wine
Runs over day and night.”

This is followed by:
1. A poem about Mary Magdalene anointing Christ:

“As she had brought wherewith to stain,
So to bring in wherewith to wash…”

2. A poem about the priesthood of Aaron (which is about Herbert questioning his fitness for the office of priest in the Anglican Church):

“Holiness on the head.”

and 3. A poem on the sweetness of the saints communion with Christ (2 Corinthians 2:15).

I will try to point out some other similarities and themes as I post these 4 poems over the next few days. But one way I like to look at it is:

1. Christ the Master: our Shepard
2. Christ the Master: our Savior
3 Christ the Master: our Priest
4.Christ the Master: our Bridegroom
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The 23rd Psalm:

“The God of love my shepherd is,
And he that doth me feed:
While he is mine, and I am his,
What can I want or need?

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

Or if I stray, he doth convert
And bring my minde in frame:
And all this not for my desert,
But for his holy name.

Yea, in death's shadie black abode
Well may I walk, not fear:
For thou art with me; and thy rod
To guide, thy staff to bear.

Nay, thou dost make me sit and dine,
Ev’n in my enemies sight:
My head with oyl, my cup with wine
Runnes over day and night.

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

 

[Jerusalem Blade]

John, yesterday, while having an MRI (to assess what's up with me), in the midst of great noise (MRIs do this) and very sharp pain from my injury, I very slowly and thoroughly recited the 23rd Palm in my heart and mind, and found great relief, peace, and joy — just to be with and near Him.

 

[John Nyberg]

John, yesterday, while having an MRI (to assess what's up with me), in the midst of great noise (MRIs do this) and very sharp pain from my injury, I very slowly and thoroughly recited the 23rd Palm in my heart and mind, and found great relief, peace, and joy — just to be with and near Him.

I appreciate you, Steve. May the Lord give you peace during this time.

 

[John Nyberg]

Marie Magdalene (Luke 7:36-50)

When blessed Marie wip’d her Saviours feet,
(Whose precepts she had trampled on before)
And wore them for a jewell on her head,
Shewing his steps should be the street,
Wherein she thenceforth evermore
With pensive humblenesse would live and tread:


She being stain’d her self, why did she strive
To make him clean, who could not be defil’d?
Why kept she not her tears for her own faults,
And not his feet? Though we could dive
In tears like seas, our sinnes are pil’d
Deeper then they, in words, and works, and thoughts.


Deare soul, she knew who did vouchsafe and deigne
To bear her filth; and that her sinnes did dash
Ev’n God himself: wherefore she was not loth,
As she had brought wherewith to stain,
So to bring in wherewith to wash:
And yet in washing one, she washed both.

 

[John Nyberg]

After praising Mary’s adoration of Christ in the first stanza, Herbert echoes the questioning of the Pharisees (does Christ not know what kind of woman this is?). For Herbert, the question is not about Christs ability as a prophet, but rather about Marie’s understanding of herself.

Lines 7-10
“She being stain’d her self, why did she strive
To make him clean, who could not be defil’d?
Why kept she not her tears for her own faults,
And not his feet?”

Why does she come to Christ if she is so dirty? What makes her think she has something to offer him? Does she not have repentance to do before approaching his excellency?

Yet these questions are answered in the final stanza. Lines 13-14:

“she knew who did vouchsafe and deigne
To bear her filth…”

Mary’s hope is not in her works to fulfill the law: “precepts she had trampled on before”;

nor in her own repentance: “Though we could dive
In tears like seas, our sinnes are pil’d
Deeper then they, in words, and works, and thoughts”;

but rather says with the psalmist:
“Or if I stray, he doth convert
And bring my minde in frame:
And all this not for my desert,
But for his holy name.” (The 23rd Psalm)

 

[John Nyberg]

Aaron

“Holinesse on the head,
Light and perfections on the breast,
Harmonious bells below, raising the dead
To lead them unto life and rest:
Thus are true Aarons drest.

Profanenesse in my head,
Defects and darknesse in my breast,
A noise of passions ringing me for dead
Unto a place where is no rest:
Poore priest thus am I drest.

Only another head
I have, another heart and breast,
Another musick, making live not dead,
Without whom I could have no rest:
In him I am well drest.

Christ is my onely head,
My alone onely heart and breast,
My only musick, striking me ev'n dead;
That to the old man I may rest,
And be in him new drest.

So holy in my head,
Perfect and light in my deare breast,
My doctrine tun'd by Christ, (who is not dead,
But lives in me while I do rest).
Come, people; Aaron's drest.”

 

[John Nyberg]

Aaron is, in my opinion, one of Herbert’s finest works. The poet begins with a metaphorical interpretation of the priestly garb of Aaron, then recapitulates the metaphor in each of the following stanzas. Like musical notes ascending and descending, each line I the stanzas contain 6, 8, 10, 8, 6 syllable’s respectively. Each of the rhyme words are identical in the each of the stanzas. Yet despite all of this repetition, each stanza comes across clean and fresh to the mind. There is a positive progression from impossible righteousness, to a despair of personal holiness, to the resurrected hope that comes with new life in Christ Jesus. This subtle movement breaks into a crescendo of hope in the penultimate stanza:

“Christ is my onely head,
My alone onely heart and breast,
My only musick, striking me ev'n dead;
That to the old man I may rest,
And be in him new drest.”

In this poem, Christ proves himself the master of the priest, just as he proves himself master of the repentant sinner in Marie Magdalene

 

[John Nyberg]

The next poems I will be sharing are the 5 poems titled “Affliction.”

Affliction (1) is a highly autobiographical poem; an expression of Herbert’s deep spiritual struggles and doubts:

Affliction (1):

“When first thou didst entice to thee my heart,
I thought the service brave;
So many joys I writ down for my part,
Besides what I might have
Out of my stock of natural delights,
Augmented with thy gracious benefits.

I looked on thy furniture so fine,
And made it fine to me;
Thy glorious household-stuff did me entwine,
And 'tice me unto thee.
Such stars I counted mine: both heav'n and earth;
Paid me my wages in a world of mirth.

What pleasures could I want, whose King I serv'd,
Where joys my fellows were?
Thus argu'd into hopes, my thoughts reserv'd
No place for grief or fear.
Therefore my sudden soul caught at the place,
And made her youth and fierceness seek thy face.

At first thou gav'st me milk and sweetnesses;
I had my wish and way;
My days were straw'd with flow'rs and happiness;
There was no month but May.
But with my years sorrow did twist and grow,
And made a party unawares for woe.

My flesh began unto my soul in pain,
"Sicknesses cleave my bones;
Consuming agues dwell in ev'ry vein,
And tune my breath to groans."
Sorrow was all my soul; I scarce believ'd,
Till grief did tell me roundly, that I liv'd.

When I got health, thou took'st away my life,
And more, for my friends die;
My mirth and edge was lost, a blunted knife
Was of more use than I.
Thus thin and lean without a fence or friend,
I was blown through with ev'ry storm and wind.

Whereas my birth and spirit rather took
The way that takes the town;
Thou didst betray me to a ling'ring book,
And wrap me in a gown.
I was entangled in the world of strife,
Before I had the power to change my life.

Yet, for I threaten'd oft the siege to raise,
Not simp'ring all mine age,
Thou often didst with academic praise
Melt and dissolve my rage.
I took thy sweet'ned pill, till I came where
I could not go away, nor persevere.

Yet lest perchance I should too happy be
In my unhappiness,
Turning my purge to food, thou throwest me
Into more sicknesses.
Thus doth thy power cross-bias me, not making
Thine own gift good, yet me from my ways taking.

Now I am here, what thou wilt do with me
None of my books will show;
I read, and sigh, and wish I were a tree,
For sure then I should grow
To fruit or shade: at least some bird would trust
Her household to me, and I should be just.

Yet, though thou troublest me, I must be meek;
In weakness must be stout;
Well, I will change the service, and go seek
Some other master out.
Ah my dear God! though I am clean forgot,
Let me not love thee, if I love thee not.”

 

[John Nyberg]

A true analysis of this poem requires an analysis of George Herbert’s life and struggles. I’ll leave that to his many biographers. Suffice to say, Herbert’s short life was heavily marked with grief, disappointment and sickness.

Many Christian’s can, perhaps, relate to Herbert’s experience of faith. The Christian life begins with promise and excitement. While our bodies and worldly hopes are intact, spiritual benefits seem like icing on the cake. Stanza 4:

“At first thou gav'st me milk and sweetnesses;
I had my wish and way;
My days were straw'd with flow'rs and happiness;
There was no month but May.”

Like Herbert we encounter sickness, loss, or temptation perhaps. This leaves us despairing. As the poet writes in stanza 6:

“My mirth and edge was lost, a blunted knife
Was of more use than I.
Thus thin and lean without a fence or friend,
I was blown through with ev'ry storm and wind.”


The entire poem, Herbert rightly blames his sicknesses and disappointments on the sovereign actions of a Sovereign God. He knows it is his Master that afflicts him (Job 1:21). Herbert then vents his discontent and rage against his Lord, ending in despondency in stanza 10:

“Now I am here, what thou wilt do with me
None of my books will show;”

Followed by an amazing final stanza of meekness and bitter honesty:

“Yet, though thou troublest me, I must be meek;
In weakness must be stout;
Well, I will change the service, and go seek
Some other master out.
Ah my dear God! though I am clean forgot,
Let me not love thee, if I love thee not.”

Herbert finally bows the knee. He recognizes that his desire for God is often a desire for imagined earthly benefits. He confesses his desire to seek out an earthly master to fulfill his earthly needs. Yet ends in naming his adversary as “my dear God.” Herbert has forgotten himself, God has not forgotten him. The last line I take in this way: “Dear God, let there be no idolatrous way in me. If I love you not as my one true Master, if I am false, let me not be pretentious.”

This poem certainly isn’t a song one would hear on a Christian radio station.
There is nothing fluffy or trite about Herbert’s devotion. Yet we do find an honest portrait of a Christian life, one in which I, for one, see my own reflection quite distinctly.

 

[John Nyberg]

Affliction (2)
Kill me not ev'ry day,
Thou Lord of life; since thy one death for me
Is more than all my deaths can be,
Though I in broken pay
Die over each hour of Methusalem's stay.

If all men's tears were let
Into one common sewer, sea, and brine;
What were they all, compar'd to thine?
Wherein if they were set,
They would discolour thy most bloudy sweat.

Thou art my grief alone,
Thou, Lord, conceal it not: and as thou art
All my delight, so all my smart:
Thy crosse took up in one,
By way of imprest, all my future moan.

 

[John Nyberg]

The above poem advances Herbert’s theme of suffering. While Affliction 1 vents his raw, untempered despair, Affliction 2 meditates on the Christians suffering in Christ. The sufferings of Christ are a consistent theme in Herbert’s poetry (see The Sacrifice and The Agonie), and are here seen as the true salve of the hurting soul. Simply put:

“Thou art my grief alone,
Thou, Lord, conceal it not: and as thou art
All my delight, so all my smart:
Thy crosse took up in one,
By way of imprest, all my future moan.”

 

[John Nyberg]

Affliction (3)

My heart did heave, and there came forth, O God!
By that I knew that thou wast in the grief,
To guide and govern it to my relief,
Making a scepter of the rod:
Hadst thou not had Thy part,
Sure the unruly sigh had broke my heart.

But since thy breath gave me both life and shape,
Thou knowst my tallies; and when there's assign'd
So much breath to a sigh, what's then behinde?
Or if some yeares with it escape,
The sigh then onely is
A gale to bring me sooner to my blisse.

Thy life on earth was grief, and thou art still
Constant unto it, making it to be
A point of honour now to grieve in me,
And in thy members suffer ill.
They who lament one crosse,
Thou dying dayly, praise thee to thy losse.

 

[John Nyberg]

I have really enjoyed rereading and posting the Affliction poems. It is fantastic to see a thematic development from Herbert’s despondent and belligerent attitude in the first Affliction, to a more theologically deep understanding of suffering in the second two. Herbert does not follow through with his threat to “find another master” and his Master does not abandon him. Rather we see the poet express the glory of Christ’s precious atoning death (Affliction 2) and explore the implications of Christ’s headship over his suffering body (Affliction 3).

From 2: “Thou Lord of life; since thy one death for me
Is more than all my deaths can be,”

There is only one Lord Jesus. His death was once and for all. His death is sufficient.

And from 3: “Thy life on earth was grief, and thou art still
Constant unto it, making it to be
A point of honour now to grieve in me,
And in thy members suffer ill.”

A beautiful expression of the intimate, metaphysical relationship between Christ and his body. To persecute the bride is to persecute the bridegroom (Acts 9:4)

 

[John Nyberg]

Affliction (4)
“Broken in pieces all asunder,
Lord, hunt me not,
A thing forgot,
Once a poore creature, now a wonder,
A wonder tortur'd in the space
Betwixt this world and that of grace.

My thoughts are all a case of knives,
Wounding my heart
With scatter'd smart;
As wat’ring pots give flowers their lives.
Nothing their furie can controll,
While they do wound and prick my soul.

All my attendants are at strife,
Quitting their place
Unto my face:
Nothing performs the task of life:
The elements are let loose to fight,
And while I live, trie out their right.

Oh help, my God! let not their plot
Kill them and me,
And also thee,
Who art my life: dissolve the knot,
As the sunne scatters by his light
All the rebellions of the night.

Then shall those powers, which work for grief,
Enter thy pay,
And day by day
Labour thy praise, and my relief;
With care and courage building me,
Till I reach heav'n, and much more thee.”

 

[John Nyberg]

This first stanza struck me on this reading. It reminds of me 2 Corinthians 11:23 (Paul explaining his suffering for Christ).

“Broken in pieces all asunder,
Lord, hunt me not,
A thing forgot,
Once a poore creature, now a wonder,
A wonder tortur'd in the space
Betwixt this world and that of grace.”

Just goes to show that the life of the Christian is the life of the cross. Herbert’s life, though not nearly as difficult or discouraging as Paul’s, was still a life under Calvary. For the Christian, suffering and trial are:

“those powers, which work for grief,
Enter thy pay,
And day by day
Labour thy praise, and my relief;
With care and courage building me,
Till I reach heav'n, and much more thee.”

 

[John Nyberg]

Affliction (5)
“My God, I read this day,
That planted Paradise was not so firm,
As was and is thy floating Ark; whose stay
And anchor thou art onely, to confirm
And strengthen it in ev’ry age,
When waves do rise, and tempests rage.

At first we liv’d in pleasure;
Thine own delights thou didst to us impart;
When we grew wanton, thou didst use displeasure
To make us thine: yet that we might not part,
As we at first did board with thee,
Now thou wouldst taste our miserie.

There is but joy and grief;
If either will convert us, we are thine:
Some Angels us’d the first; if our relief
Take up the second, then thy double line
And sev’rall baits in either kinde
Furnish thy table to thy minde.

Affliction then is ours;
We are the trees, whom shaking fastens more,
While blustring winds destroy the wanton bowers,
And ruffle all their curious knots and store.
My God, so temper joy and woe,
That thy bright beams may tame thy bow.”

 

[John Nyberg]

Mattens

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I Cannot ope mine eyes, But thou art ready there to catch My morning-soul and sacrifice: Then we must needs for that day make a match. My God, what is a heart? Silver, or gold, or precious stone, Or starre, or rainbow, or a part Of all these things, or all of them in one? My God, what is a heart? That thou shouldst it so eye, and wooe, Powring upon it all thy art, As if that thou hadst nothing els to do? Indeed mans whole estate Amounts (and richly) to serve thee: He did not heav’n and earth create, Yet studies them, not him by whom they be. Teach me thy love to know; That this new light, which now I see, May both the work and workman show: Then by a sunne-beam I will climbe to thee.

​

 

[John Nyberg]

Sunday

“O day most calm, most bright
The fruit of this, the next world's bud,
Th'endorsement of supreme delight,
Writ by a friend, and with his blood;
The couch of time; care's balm and bay:
The week were dark, but for thy light:
Thy torch doth show the way.

The other days and thou
Make up one man; whose face thou art,
Knocking at heaven with thy brow:
The worky-days are the back-part;
The burden of the week lies there,
Making the whole to stoop and bow,
Till thy release appear.

Man had straight forward gone
To endless death: but thou dost pull
And turn us round to look on one,
Whom, if we were not very dull,
We could not choose to look on still;
Since there is no place so alone,
The which he doth not fill.

Sundays the pillars are,
On which heav'n's palace arched lies:
The other days fill up the spare
And hollow room with vanities.
They are the fruitful beds and borders
In God's rich garden: that is bare,
Which parts their ranks and orders.

The Sundays of man's life,
Threaded together on time's string,
Make bracelets to adorn the wife
Of the eternal glorious King.
On Sunday heaven's gate stands ope;
Blessings are plentiful and rife,
More plentiful than hope.

This day my Saviour rose,
And did enclose this light for his:
That, as each beast his manger knows,
Man might not of his fodder miss.
Christ hath took in this piece of ground,
And made a garden there for those
Who want herbs for their wound.

The rest of our Creation
Our great Redeemer did remove
With the same shake, which at his passion
Did th'earth and all things with it move.
As Samson bore the doors away,
Christ's hands, though nail'd, wrought our salvation,
And did unhinge that day.

The brightness of that day
We sullied by our foul offence:
Wherefore that robe we cast away,
Having a new at his expense,
Whose drops of bloud paid the full price,
That was requir'd to make us gay,
And fit for Paradise.

Thou art a day of mirth:
And where the weekdays trail on ground,
Thy flight is higher, as thy birth.
O let me take thee at the bound,
Leaping with thee from sev'n to sev'n,
Till that we both, being toss'd from earth,
Fly hand in hand to heav'n!”

 

[John Nyberg]

A few comments on Herbert’s Mattens:
This morning prayer song begins with an expression of personal devotion. Stanza 1

“I Cannot ope mine eyes, But thou art ready there to catch My morning-soul and sacrifice: Then we must needs for that day make a match.”

Herbert then goes into a stanza that at first feels… corny, perhaps. Stanza 2

“My God, what is a heart?
Silver, or gold, or precious stone,
Or starre, or rainbow, or a part
Of all these things, or all of them in one?”

Yet I believe that this stanza is Herbert trying to find himself in the sublime and beautiful elements of creation. Is he successful? No; stanza 3:

“My God, what is a heart?
That thou shouldst it so eye, and wooe,
Powring upon it all thy art,
As if that thou hadst nothing els to do?”

The beauty of the cosmos does not dignify the human soul; only God can do this. God woos the human soul to himself through creation. Yet mankind is easily distracted for we read in stanza 4:

“He did not heav'n and earth create,
Yet studies them, not him by whom they be.”

Yet Herbert himself is not blind to God’s daily advances, and the poem ends in this prayer:

“Teach me thy love to know;
That this new light, which now I see,
May both the work and workman show:
Then by a sunne-beam I will climbe to thee”

 

[John Nyberg]

Even-song
“Blest be the God of love,
Who gave us eyes, and light, and power this day,
Both to be busie, and to play.
But much more blest be God above,

Who gave me sight alone,
Which to himself he did denie:
For when he sees my waies, I dy:
But I have got his sonne, and he hath none.

What have I brought thee home
For this thy love? have I discharg’d the debt,
Which this dayes favour did beget?
I ranne; but all I brought, was fome.

Thy diet, care, and cost
Do end in bubbles, balls of winde;
Of winde to thee whom I have crost,
But balls of wilde-fire to my troubled minde.

Yet still thou goest on,
And now with darknesse closest wearie eyes,
Saying to man, It doth suffice:
Henceforth repose; your work is done.

Thus in thy ebony box
Thou dost inclose us, till the day
Put our amendment in our way,
And give new wheels to our disorder’d clocks.

I muse, which shows more love,
The day or night: that is the gale, this th’ harbour;
That is the walk, and this the arbour;
Or that the garden, this the grove.

My God, thou art all love.
Not one poore minute scapes thy breast,
But brings a favour from above;
And in this love, more then in bed, I rest”

 

[John Nyberg]

Herbert’s Even-Song acts as a contrast to his morning song, Mattens. While Mattens contemplates the power of new morning light (ending in “Then by a sunne-beam I will climbe to thee), Even-song surmises on the spiritual importance of rest and darkness.

In stanza one, Herbert proclaims:

“Blest be the God of love,
Who gave us eyes, and light, and power this day…”;

This is a clear continuation of the light theme from Mattens. Yet the consideration of light quickly turns in to a metaphorical consideration of darkness.

“[God] gave me sight alone,
Which to himself he did denie:
For when he sees my waies, I dy:
But I have got his sonne, and he hath none.”

(Bracket edit is mine for clarity). Here Herbert is being clever with the metaphor. He sees God’s long suffering and forbearance or “passing over of sin” (Romans 3:25) as blindness. When God forgives a sinner, he deprives himself of the “sight” of that sin. Herbert would “die” except for this blindness (Hebrews 8:12). Carrying the metaphor further, he claims that the Father’s self afflicted blindness goes even so far as to deprive himself of his “sun”/Son John 3:16. (Note: see Herbert’s poem The Sonne)
How does Herbert repay this amazing grace? With vain strivings. His days labor produces “foam” as a repayment for his Master’s mercy. Don’t we all feel that way, sometimes? “Foam and bubbles” are all the gain from our strivings? “Vapor” as Ecclesiastes calls it?

Herein lies the glory of darkness. The night provides an end to our struggle. Stanza 5

“Yet still thou goest on,
And now with darknesse closest wearie eyes,
Saying to man, It doth suffice:
Henceforth repose; your work is done”

In God’s grace, he encloses his beloved nightly in that “ebony box” declaring our feeble efforts sufficient, for all our efforts are enclosed and lifted by his great love. The final stanza:

“My God, thou art all love.
Not one poore minute scapes thy breast,
But brings a favour from above;
And in this love, more then in bed, I rest”

Here also is the last stanza of Herbert’s Death:
“Therefore we can go die as sleep, and trust
Half that we have
Unto an honest faithful grave;
Making our pillows either down, or dust”