George Herbert’s “Lent”
Welcome dear feast of Lent: who loves not thee
He loves not Temperance, or Authority,
But is compos’d of passion.
The Scriptures bid us fast; the Church says, now:
Give to thy Mother, what thou wouldst allow
To ev’ry Corporation.
The humble soul compos’d of love and fear
Begins at home, and lays the burden there,
When doctrines disagree.
He says, in things which use hath justly got,
I am a scandal to the Church, and not
The Church is so to me.
True Christians should be glad of an occasion
To use their temperance, seeking no evasion,
When good is seasonable;
Unless Authority, which should increase
The obligation in us, make it less,
And Power itself disable.
Besides the cleanness of sweet abstinence,
Quick thoughts and motions at a small expense,
A face not fearing light:
Whereas in fulness there are sluttish fumes,
Sour exhalations, and dishonest rheumes,
Revenging the delight.
Then those same pendant profits, which the spring
And Easter intimate, enlarge the thing,
And goodness of the deed.
Neither ought other men’s abuse of Lent
Spoil the good use; lest by that argument
We forfeit all our Creed.
It’s true, we cannot reach Christ’s forti’th day;
Yet to go part of that religious way,
Is better than to rest:
We cannot reach our Savior’s purity;
Yet are we bid, Be holy ev’n as he.
In both let’s do our best.
Who goeth in the way which Christ hath gone,
Is much more sure to meet with him, than one
That travelleth by-ways:
Perhaps my God, though he be far before,
May turn, and take me by the hand, and more:
May strengthen my decays.
Yet Lord instruct us to improve our fast
By starving sin and taking such repast
As may our faults control:
That ev’ry man may revel at his door,
Not in his parlour; banqueting the poor,
And among those his soul.
A good Anglican, was Herbert. I am glad to see that his reach is starting to extend beyond the few who love the Metaphysical poets. Next, bring on the John Donne! :-)
What a beautiful man Herbert must have been. Poet-as-saint. His poetry has a dimension that Shakespeare, essentially a cynic, lacks.
A Benedictine monk by the name of Robert recently sent the following email to a group of friends:
I love the poem by George Herbert entitled simply “Prayer”; there is
not a very in the poem, just a series of rich biblical, liturgical,
nature analogies, even war metaphors, a kind of storming heaven,
ending in a gentle understatement.
Robert
p.s. Thus the poem [with some slight modernizations of his English
for clarity]:
Prayer
Prayer the Churches’ banquet, Angels age,
Gods 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, sinners towre,
Reversed thunder, Christ-side-piercing spear,
The six says world transposing in an houre,
A kind of tune, which all things hear and fear;
Softness and peace and joy and love and bliss,
Exalted Manna, gladness of the best,
Heaven in ordinarie, man well drest,
The milkie way, the bird of Paradise,
Church bells beyond the stars heard, the souls blood,
The land of spices; something understood.
Thanks for another gorgeous poem, Michael.
But what does “Angels age” mean?
“The soul in paraphrase”: What a great idea!
Augustine thought that tears were “the soul’s blood”.
Ann, I am not exactly sure what Herbert meant by “Angles age”. I guess it could mean when eternity and this moment cross paths and there is a counterbalance between absolute tension and absolute stillness. The tension is time and the stillness is eternity. It points us toward the peace that passeth understanding.
Michael –
Thanks, but isn’t it “Angels age”? Either way it doesn’t make sense to me. I’m sure that’s partly due to my underlying suspicion of metaphors even though they’re the stuff of poetry. I am much inclined to abstractions. even though I know that abstractions kill. (See — I can speak in metaphors.). But metaphors all too easily falsify.
Oh, well.
Ann,
I think you are correct that it is “Angels age”. I am going to ask Fr. Robert.
Not one, but two, poems of Herbert. Many thanks.
In the Everyman edition of Herbert’s Poems, the editor, Ann Pasternak Slater, writes about the phrase “Angels’ age”: “H compares with Man’s age (“Repentance” [a poem that appears two pages before "Prayer" in this edition]…); prayer acquaints man with the angels’ blessed, timeless existence.”
Mr. Boudway –
Thanks for all your trouble, but I still don’t understand. I found “Repentence” online, but I find a lot of it incomprehensible. And there’s no mention of “Angels’ age” in any of the three texts I found. I wonder if both poems were somehow corrupted along the way. Moral: you never know Sigh.
Here’s the version of “Repentance” I found.
Lord, I confess my sin is great;
Great is my sin. Oh! gently treat
With your quick flower, your momentary bloom;
Whose life still pressing
Is one undressing,
A steady aiming at a tomb.
Man’s age is two hours work, or three:
Each day does round about us see.
Thus are we to delights: but we are all
To sorrows old,
If like be told
From what life feels of Adam’s fall.
O let your height of mercy then
Compassionate short-breathéd men.
Cut me not off for my most foul transgression:
I do confess
My foolishness;
My God, accept of my confession.
Sweeten at length this bitter bowl,
Which you have poured into my soul;
Your wormwood turn to health, winds to fair weather:
For if you stay,
I and this day,
As we did rise, we die together.
When you for sin rebuke each man,
Forthwith he waxeth woe and wan:
Bitterness fills our bowels; all our hearts
Pine, and decay,
And drop away,
And carry with them th’ other parts.
But you will sin and grief destroy;
That so the broken bones may joy,
And tune together in a well-set song,
Full of His praises,
Who dead men raises.
Fractures well cured make us more strong.
1633 Edition
Dear Ann and Matthew,
Thanks for continuing this thread. This morning I sent it to my friend Fr. Robert Hale, OSB Cam. He loves the Metaphysical poets. I am sure he will delighted to read what you have quoted and written.
I received the following message today from an email acquaintance who is an Anglican hermitess in Australia:
“Dear Michael
This is a poem I’ve loved since i was first introduced to it when I was 18. I
lost my book of Herbert’s poetry when my house burned down, and haven’t replaced
it yet, so it’s great to have the text.
My understanding of ‘angels’ age’ is that experience of eternity, of
timelessness, which sometimes comes in prayer.
Thanks you for sharing it.
Ruth”
Dom Robert Hale, OSB, Cam has replied as follows on the question about ‘angels’ age’.
“>>My understanding of ‘angels’ age’ is that experience of eternity, of timelessness, which simetimes comes in prayer.>>
Thanks to Michael and to Ruth. Ah, George Herbert, what a saintly poet! And his poems are rich with Biblical and liturgical references, so very monastic in spirit. They lend themselves to lectio!
And my understanding of ‘angels’ age’ is the same as Ruth’s. There is our poor mortal age, 70 if we are lucky (as the Psalmest puts it–maybe we’ve pushed that a bit with modern science, nutrition etc., but still and all), then there is the age of angels, forever and ever and Now, and prayer opens to that.
Robert”