 O King of Grief, a title strange yet true to thee of all kings only, do you? O King of Wounds, how shall I grieve for thee, who in all grief preventest me? Shall I weep blood? Why thou hast wept such store that all thy body was one door? Shall I be scourged, flouted, boxed, sold? It is but to tell the tale is told. My God, my God, why dost thou part from me? Was such a grief as cannot be? Shall I then sing, skipping thy doleful story, and sighed with thy triumphant glory? Shall thy strokes be my stroking, thorns my flower, thy rod my posy, cross my bower? But how then shall I imitate thee, and copy thy fair, though bloody hand? Surely I will revenge me on thy love, and try who shall victorious prove? If thou dost give me wealth, I will restore all back unto thee by the poor. If thou dost give me honour, men shall see, the honour doth belong to thee. I will not marry, or if she be mine, she and her children shall be thine. My bosom friend, if he blaspheme thy name, I will tear thence his love and fame. One half of me being gone, the rest I give unto some chapel, die or live. As for thy passion, but of that anon, when with the other I have done. For thy predestination I'll contrive, that three years hence, if I survive, I'll build a spittle, or mend common ways, but mend mine own, without delays. Then I will use the works of thy creation, as if I used them, but for fashion. The world and I will quarrel, and the year shall not perceive that I am here. My music shall find thee, and every string shall have his attribute to sing. That altogether may accord in thee, and prove one god, one harmony. If thou shalt give me wit, it shall appear. If thou hast given it me, it is here. May I will read thy book, and never move, till I have found therein thy love, thy art of love, which I'll turn back on thee, O my dear Saviour, victory. Then for thy passion I'll do for that. Alas, my God, I know not what! End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Agony by George Herbert Read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes Philosophers have measured mountains, fathomed the depths of seas, of states and kings, walked with the staff to heaven, 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, sin and love. Who would know sin? Let him repair unto Mount Olivet. There shall he see a man so rung with pains, that all his hair, his skin, his garments bloody be. Sin is that press and vice, which forceth pain to hunt his cruel food through every vein. Who knows not love? Let him assay, and taste that juice, which on the cross, a pike, did set again a brooch. Then let him say, if ever he did taste the like, Love is that liquor, sweet and most divine, which my God feels as blood, but I as wine. Good Friday by George Herbert Read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes O my chief good, how shall I measure out thy blood? How shall I count what thee befell, and each grief tell? Shall I thy woes number according to thy foes? Or since one star showed thy first breath, shall all thy death? Or shall each leaf, which falls in autumn, score a grief? Or cannot leaves but fruit be sign of the true vine? Then let each hour of my whole life one grief devour, that thy distress through all may run, and be my son? Or rather let my several sins their sorrows get, that as each beast his cured doth know, each sin may so. Since blood is fittest, Lord, to write thy sorrows in, and bloody fight, my heart hath store, right there, wherein 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, O fill the place, and keep possession with thy grace, lest sin take courage and return, and all the writings blot or burn. Redemption Having been tenant long to a rich lord, not thriving I resolve to be bold, and make a suit unto him, to afford a new small rented lease, and cancel the old. In heaven at his manor I him sort, they told me there that he was lately gone about some land which he had dearly bought, long since on earth to take possession. I straight returned, and knowing his great birth, sought him accordingly in great resorts, in cities, theatres, gardens, parks, and courts. At length I heard a ragged noise and mirth of thieves and murderers. Here I him espied, who straight, your suit is granted, said, and died. The Church Floor Mark you the floor, that square and speckled stone which looks so firm and strong, is patience, and the other blackened grave where with each one is checkered all along, humility. The gentle rising which on either hand leads to the choir above is confidence, but the sweet cement which in one sure band ties the whole frame is love and charity. There sometimes sin steals and stains the marble's neat and curious veins, but all is cleansed when the marble weeps. Sometimes death, puffing at the door, blows all the dust about the floor, but while he thinks to spoil the room, he sweeps. Blessed be the architect whose art could build so strong in a weak heart. The Windows by George Herbert Read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes 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. And when thou dost a kneel in glass thy story, making thy life to shine within the holy preachers, then the light and glory, more reverent grows, and more doth win, which else shows waterish, bleak, and thin. Doctrine and life, colours 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 air not conscience ring. Constancy by George Herbert Read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes Who is the honest man? He that doth still and strongly good pursue, to God, his neighbour, and himself most true, whom neither force nor forning can unpin or wrench from giving all their due. Whose honesty is not so loose or easy that a ruffling wind can blow away, or glittering look it blind? Who rides his shore and even trot, while the world now rides by, now lags behind? Who when great trials come, nor seeks nor shuns them, but doth calmly stay, till he the thing and the example weigh, all being brought into a psalm, what place or person calls for he doth pay? Who none can work or woo to use in anything a trick or slight? For above all things he abhors deceit, his words and works and fashion too all of apiece and all are clear and straight. Who never melts or thaws at close temptations? When the day is done his goodness sets not, but in dark can run. The son to others writeth laws, and is their virtue, virtue is his son. Who when he is to treat with sick folks, women, those whom passions sway, allows for that, and keeps his constant way, whom others faults do not defeat, but though men fail him, yet his part doth play, whom nothing can procure when the wide world runs bias from his will to writhe his limbs and share not mend the ill. This is the Mark man, safe and sure, who still is right and praise to be so still. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Monday by George Herbert Read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes O day most calm, most bright, the fruit of this, the next world's bud, the endorsement of supreme delight, writ by a friend, and with his blood. The couch of time cares balm and bay, The weak 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 hole to stoop and bow till thy release appear. Man had straightforward gone to endless death, but thou dost pull and turn as round to look on one, whom, if we were not very dull, we could not choose but look on still, since there is no place so alone the which he doth not fill. Sundays the pillars are, on which heaven'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 oak. 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 the earth and all things with it move. As Samson bore the doors away Christ's hands, though nailed, wrought salvation, and did unhinge that day. The brightness of that day we solid by our foul offence, wherefore that robe we cast away having anew at his expense, whose drops of blood paid the full price that was required 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 seven to seven, till that we both, being tossed from earth, fly hand in hand to heaven. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Denial by George Herbert, read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes. When my devotions could not pierce thy silent ears, then was my heart broken, as was my verse, my breast was full of fears and disorder. My bent thoughts, like a brittle bow, did fly asunder. Each took his way, some would to pleasures go, some to the wars and thunder of alarms. As good go anywhere they say, as to be numb, both knees and heart, in crying night and day, Come, come, my God, O come, but no hearing. O that thou shouldst give dust a tongue to cry to thee, and then not hear it crying. All day long my heart was in my knee, but no hearing. Therefore my soul lay out of sight, untuned, unstrung. My feeble spirit, unable to look right, like a nipped blossom, hung, discontented. O cheer and tune my heartless breast, defer no time, that so thy favours, granting my request, they and my mind may chime, and mend my rhyme. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Size and Growns by George Herbert Read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes O, do not use me after my sins, look not on my desert, but on thy glory, then thou wilt reform, and not refuse me, for thou only art the Almighty God, but I, a silly worm. O, do not bruise me. O, do not urge me, for what account can thy ill steward make? I have abused thy stock, destroyed thy woods, sucked all thy magazines. My head did ache, till I found out how to consume thy goods. O, do not scourge me. O, do not blind me. I have deserved that an Egyptian knight should thicken all my powers, because my lust hath still sewed fig-leaves to exclude thy light, but I am frailty, and already dust. O, do not grind me. O, do not fill me with the turned vial of thy bitter wroth, for thou hast other vessels full of blood, a part whereof my Saviour emptied hath, even unto death, since he died for my good. O, do not kill me. But O, reprieve me, for thou hast life and death at thy command. Thou art both judge and Saviour, feast and rod, cordial and corrosive. But not thy hand into the bitter box, but O, my God, my God, relieve me. Love built a stately house, where fortune came, and spinning fancies, she was heard to say that her fine cobwebs did support the frame, whereas they were supported by the same, but wisdom quickly swept them all away. Then pleasure came, who, liking not the fashion, began to make balconies, terraces, till she had weakened all by alteration, but reverent laws and many a proclamation reformed all at length with menaces. Then entered sin, and with that sycamore, whose leaves first sheltered man from drought and dew, working and winding slily evermore, the inward walls and summers cleft and tore. But grace shored these, and cut that as it grew. Then sin, combined with death in a firm band, to raise the building to the very floor, which they affected, none could then withstand. But love and grace took glory by the hand, and built a braver palace than before. Obedience by George Herbert My God, if writings may convey a lordship any way, whither the buyer and the seller please, let it not thee displease, if this poor paper do as much as they. On it my heart doth bleed, as many lines as there doth need, to pass itself, and all it hath to thee, to which I do agree, and hear by the hand, and hear by the hand, to present it as my special deed. If that hereafter pleasure, cavill, and claim her part and measure, as if this passed with a reservation, or some such words in fashion, I hear exclude the wrangler from thy treasure. O let thy sacred will, all thy delight in me fulfil, let me not think an action mine own way, but as thy love shall sway, resigning up the rudder to thy skill. Lord, what is man to thee, that thou shouldst mind a rotten tree, yet since thou canst not choose but see my actions, so great are thy perfections, thou mayst as well my actions guide as see. Besides thy death and blood showed a strange love to all our good, thy sorrows were in earnest, no faint proffer, or superficial offer, of what we might not take, or be withstood. Wherefore I all forego to one word only I say no, where in the deed there was an intimation of a gift or donation, Lord, let it now by way of purchase go. He that will pass his land as I have mine may set his hand and heart unto this deed, when he hath read, and make the purchase spread to both our goods if he to it will stand. How happy were my part, if some kind man would thrust his heart into these lines, till in heaven's court of rolls they were by winged souls, entered for both, far above their dessert. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Man's Medley by George Herbert Read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes Hark how the birds do sing and woods do ring, all creatures have their joy and man hath his, yet if we rightly measure man's joy and pleasure rather hereafter than in present is. To this life things of sense make their pretense, in the other angels have a right by birth, man ties them both alone and makes them one, with the one hand touching heaven, with the other earth. In soul he mounts and flies, in flesh he dies, he wears a stoff whose thread is coarse and round, but trimmed with curious lace and should take place after the trimming, not the stoff and ground. Not that he may hear taste of the cheer, but as birds drink and straight lift up their head, so must he sip and think of better drink he may attain to after he is dead. But as his joys are double, so is his trouble. He hath two winters, other things but one, both frosts and thoughts do nip and bite his lip, and he of all things fears two deaths alone. Yet even the greatest griefs may be reliefs, could he but take them right and in their ways, happy is he whose heart hath found the art to turn his double pains to double praise. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Twenty-Third Psalm by George Herbert, read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes. 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 grass where I both feed and rest, then to the streams that gently pass, in both I have the best. Or if I stray he doth convert and bring my mind in frame, and all this not for my dessert, but for his holy name. Yea, in death's shady 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, in in my enemy's sight. My head with oil, my cup with wine, runs over day and night. Surely thy sweet and wondrous love shall measure all my days, and as it never shall remove, so neither shall my praise. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Mary Magdalene by George Herbert Read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes When blessed Mary wiped her Saviour's feet, whose preset she had trampled on before, and wore them for a duel on her head, showing his steps should be the street wherein she thenceforth evermore with pensive humbleness would live and tread. She being stained herself, why did she strive to make him clean, who could not be defiled? Why kept she not her tears for her own faults, and not his feet, though we could dive in tears like seas, our sins are piled deeper than they, in words and works and thoughts? Dear Saul, she knew who did vouchsafe and dain to bear her filth, and that her sins did dash in God himself, wherefore she was not loath, and as she had brought wherewith to stain, so to bring in wherewith to wash, and yet in washing one she washed both. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Aeron by George Herbert, read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes. Holiness 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 errands dressed. Profaneness in my head, defects and darkness in my breast, a noise of passions ringing me for dead, unto a place where is no rest. Poor priest, thus am I dressed. Only another head I have, another heart and breast, another music making life not dead, without whom I could have no rest. In him I am well dressed. Christ is my only head, my alone only heart and breast, my only music striking me in dead, that to the old man I may rest, and be in him new dressed. So holy in my head, perfect and light in my dear breast, my doctrine tuned by Christ, who is not dead but lives in me while I do rest. Come, people, errands dressed. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Elixir by George Herbert, read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes. Teach me, my God and King, in all things thee to see, and what I do in anything to do it as for thee. Not rudely as a beast to run into an action, but still to make thee pre-possessed and give it his perfection. A man that looks on glass, on it may stay his eye, or if he pleaseth, through it pass, and then the heaven espy. All may of thee partake. Nothing can be so mean which with his tincture for thy sake will not grow bright and clean. A servant with this claws makes drudgery divine, who sweeps a room as for thy laws makes that and the action fine. This is the famous stone that turneth all to gold, for that which God doth touch and own cannot for less be told. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A wreath by George Herbert, read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes. A wreathed garland of deserved praise, of praise deserved unto thee I give. I give to thee who knowest all my ways, my crooked winding ways wherein I live. Wherein I die not live, for life is straight, straight as a line, and ever tends to thee. To thee who art more far above deceit than deceit seems above simplicity. Give me simplicity that I may live, so live and like that I may know thy ways. Know them and practice them. Then shall I give for this poor wreath give thee a crown of praise. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Death by George Herbert, read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes. Death thou wast once an uncouth hideous thing, nothing but bones, the sad effect of sadder groans. Thy mouth was open, but thou couldst not sing. For we considered thee as at some six or ten years hence, after the loss of life and sense, flesh being turned to dust, and bones to sticks. We looked on this side of thee, shooting short, where we did find the shells of fledged souls left behind, dry dust which sheds no tears, but may extort. But since our Saviour's death did put some blood into thy face, thou art grown fair and full of grace, much in request, much sought for as a good. For we do now behold thee, gay and glad, as at Doomsday, when souls shall wear their new array, and all thy bones with beauty shall be clad. 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. Love, by George Herbert, read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes. Love bade me welcome, yet my soul drew back, guilty of dust and sin. But quick-eyed love, observing me grow slack from my first entrance in, drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning, if I lacked anything. A guest, I answered, worthy to be here. Love said, you shall be he. I, the unkind, ungrateful, are my dear, I cannot look on thee. Love took my hand, and smiling did reply, Who made the eyes but I? Truth, Lord, but I have marred them, let my shame go where it doth deserve. And know you not, says love, who bore the blame? My dear, then I will serve. You must sit down, says love, and taste my meat. So I did sit and eat.