Sunday Poem.

I got an email today from the local good bookseller. A copy of George Herbert’s Temple is awaiting my payment: cheaper than going to Amazon now that the government hits them with tax as well. The series continues: the current link is the best order I can find for them

Symbol or transubstantiation? The poet does not say. Nor do I.

The Agonie.

PHilosophers have measur’d mountains,
thom’d the depths of seas, of states, and kings,
Walk’d with a staffe to heav’n, and traced fountains:
But there are two vast, spacious things,
The which to measure it doth more behove:
et few there are that sound them; Sinne and Love.

Who would know Sinne, let him repair
‘nto mount Olivet; there shall he see
man so wrung with pains, that all his hair,
His skinne, his garments bloudie be.
‘nne is that presse and vice, which forceth pain
to hunt his cruell food through ev’ry vein.

Who knows not Love, let him assay
and taste that juice, which on the crosse a pike
and set again abroach; then let him say
If ever he did taste the like.
‘ove is that liquour sweet and most divine,
Which my God feels as bloud; but I, as wine.

George Herbert