Tag Archives: George Herbert

A Sabbath Poem

Sunday

By George Herbert (1593-1633)


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 they light:

Thy torch doth show the way.


The other days and thou

Make up one man; whose face thou art,

Knocking at heaven with they 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 but 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 Sundas 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 inclose this light for his:

That, as each beast his manger knox,

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 nailed, 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 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 week-days 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 tossed from earth,

Fly hand in hand to heav’n!

 

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