Christian Art | George Herbert | The Temple | The Church | Praise (1)
George Herbert | The Temple | The Church | Praise (1)
To write a verse or two, is all the praise,
That I can raise:
Mend my estate in any wayes,
Thou shalt have more.
I go to Church; help me to wings, and I
Will thither flie;
Or, if I mount unto the skie,
I will do more.
Man is all weaknesse; there is no such thing
As Prince or King:
His arm is short; yet with a sling
He may do more.
An herb destill’d, and drunk, may dwell next doore,
On the same floore,
To a brave soul: Exalt the poore,
They can do more.
O raise me then! poore bees, that work all day,
Sting my delay,
Who have a work, as well as they,
And much, much more.
George Herbert | The Temple | The Church | Praise
In this poem, Herbert reflects on the limits of human strength and importance of divine assistance. The poem begins with the modest admission that ‘to write a verse or two is all the praise, / That I can raise’, indicating that any expression of gratitude or devotion Herbert offers to God is inherently limited. This acknowledgment of inadequacy runs throughout the poem, shaping a tone of humility and dependence on divine strength.
The poem is structured around a sequence of conditional promises: if God improves Herbert’s situation or ‘mends’ his condition, Herbert pledges to offer more in return. In the second stanza, for instance, the poet states that he goes to church, but with divine help, he could ‘fly’ there, suggesting he desires not just to meet the minimum expectation but to exceed any such if enabled by God. The request for ‘wings’ evokes a desire for spiritual elevation, implying that mere attendance or passive devotion is insufficient; Herbert aspires to a more fervent, active spirituality, one he can achieve only through divine support.
The poem then transitions to a broader commentary on human frailty, emphasizing that ‘man is all weakness’ and dismissing a notion of human authority by stating that there is ‘no such thing as prince or king’. This statement positions human power as ineffectual, highlighting that even strongest individuals are limited without God’s strength. The reference to the ‘short arm’ of human beings suggests a physical and metaphorical limitation, underscoring humanity’s inherent helplessness in the face of divine power. Despite these limitations, the line ‘yet with a sling he may do more’ alludes to the biblical story of David and Goliath, where a seemingly insignificant weapon in a humble hand can be transformative. This story underscores the theme that God’s power, when granted, enables individuals to transcend limitations.
Herbert’s reflections deepen with the mention of ‘an herb distilled, and drunk’, which he says could reside ‘next door / On the same floor, / To a brave soul’. This suggests that even smallest elements of creation have inherent potency, potentially close to divine strength when magnified by God. Herbert emphasizes that if the humble and ‘exalted poor’ receive divine help, they too ‘can do more’. This theme of reversal—where weakness becomes strength through divine intervention—reinforces Herbert’s sense of reliance on God’s grace to achieve any meaningful or extraordinary accomplishments.
In the final stanza, Herbert likens himself to ‘poor bees’ who labour tirelessly. Here, bees serve as a metaphor for industriousness and purposeful work, qualities Herbert aspires to in his spiritual life. The reference to the bee also connects to the theme of collective humility, as each bee contributes to a larger purpose. Herbert acknowledges that he ‘has a work’ to do, paralleling the purposeful existence of the bees. His request for the bees to ‘sting my delay’ suggests that he recognizes a need to be jolted into action, spurred by a kind of spiritual urgency.
The poem explores a paradox that while human efforts are limited, such efforts are made meaningful through divine empowerment. The repetition of ‘more’ reflects Herbert’s desire to extend his own capacities, while continually acknowledging that such aspirations can only be fulfilled with God’s aid. The final line, ‘And much, much more,’ captures a yearning to transcend earthly limitations, a desire for divine enablement that would allow Herbert to fulfil his potential to its fullest extent. The poem presents a vision of spirituality grounded in humility, active purpose, and recognition of human dependence on God’s grace.
Jesus fasted in the wilderness for 40 days toward the start of his ministry. This was a time of preparation, while Jesus was tempted by Satan. Matthew’s Gospel account most fully expresses the time of fasting as one in which Jesus declares his assumed humanity to be in accord with his Father’s will, oriented toward God’s saving purpose. Fasting is an aspect of many historical religions. We are asked to fast at particular times, and as we do, in our physical hunger, we may discover a closer relationship with God, even when our fasting can be mentally challenging [ … ]
‘Behold the Lamb of God.’ Throughout the Bible, we are called to know and to develop our relationship with the Lamb. It is in Genesis the Lamb is first mentioned, provided by God as a sacrifice to take the place of Isaac. Through the history of Jewish ritual, a lamb is offered in sacrifice, for expiation, reparation, sanctification. The prophets speak of a meek, tame lamb, sheared without opening its mouth. In the Book of Revelation, or Apocalypse, the full meaning of the Lamb will be revealed, as the king, the Spouse, the lamp, the temple, the place of our eternal dwelling. The Lamb spans all history. And John the Baptist has already, in John’s Gospel, recognised and declared Christ as the Lamb of God who will take away the sins of the world [ … ]
‘Death,’ says His Grace, ‘throws it all apart. For we are not as we should be. Faith requires our adjustment to God’s truth. God’s triumph in a very real sense requires in us the loss of our everything. Which, as with Mary at the other end of Jesus’s life, is God’s truth.’ The Gospel reading is of John 11: 1-45, which is a long passage, and His Grace’s homiletic theme commences in textual wilderness. Our brokenness – in this place – a family home. Our faith, our doubt, our death… The irruption – death, doubt, fear – within our precious scenes and our most intimate places. Our domesticity. His Grace speaks from the chair, as is a bishop’s prerogative, and says: ‘So much is obscure in the Gospels. We’re always reaching through them. We’re never there. Really, we never are. Our knowledge, our understanding, of the Gospels is never complete, and with each reading comes a new revelation. There are always new riches there. Just as there are between all of us, between myself and you. The Gospels are living texts. This is a part of the conversation we have with our own Christianity. It is a part of who we are in our relationship with Jesus. We are in this sense always on the brink. ‘So yes, there is plenty that doesn’t seem to make sense. As one of the order of bishops, we would be lying if we said that weren’t the case. They are not easy texts to encounter, if by that word we may signify something more than a superficial glancing off against, but rather a profound search for the word of God. The Gospels are written by people who had their own ideas, and often didn’t know what had really happened. Luke is quite explicit on this point. His is an investigation, from the explicitly claimed point of view of an historian, rather than that of a first-hand witness, who attempts, so he says, to set out an orderly account, out of the chaos, the sheer muddle, that has been handed down to him. It is possible to imagine Luke researching and composing his account after many years, when there has arisen a desire to know what exactly happened, and this implies a certain call to faith and certain demands of historicity, to historical exactitude. So in these different ways, the people of the first years of Christian faith are in the dark. There is also a decisive need to define the life of Jesus. And people didn’t get Jesus. The whole meaning of Christianity is only now beginning to take root throughout the composition. So much needs to be evangelized. The light shines almost in tentative fashion like that first star, which drew the wise men from the east to our Lord’s cradle. ‘John’s is widely held to be a very late Gospel. There are others who say that John’s Gospel might have been the first to acquire its true shape, because it most fully expresses Jesus, as we know him to be, as members of the Catholic Church. We don’t really know when any of this is being written, but we get a feel in John of a Gospel refined over many years, through a community. So there’s a lot going on there that I’d like you to think about. ‘What I would like to suggest to you is that, while within the Gospels we are often confronted with clues, guesswork, stories that have been handed down through so many people, and so in this sense we might find ourselves to be in the wilderness, this is the very desolate space itself to which we must give ourselves in order to experience Christ’s full redemption in our lives. I suggest it is for God’s glory that we do so. ‘As we become aware of ourselves, in this seminary, we find ourselves in a very secure, comfortable setting, and there are signs of Easter everywhere. Within the very fabric of these buildings, our Lord is risen; our Lord lives. But now this is our Lenten journey, where death enters, where death breaks us. We are to ride into Jerusalem in triumph, and then we are to be utterly broken, all hope gone, our hope extinguished. And really, I suggest to you, it is only by inhabiting this thought, as if we don’t know Easter is there, that our new life can follow, just when we have given up all hope, when every promise that Jesus made to us seems to have been cancelled. ‘And here now we have the story of Lazarus. I should like to suggest to you that we have a very powerful call now. In our very comfortable space, our domesticity, with all this comfort, where so very little might seem to happen each day, so it might seem to you, there is a disturbance within all of this comfort, and that is a disturbance within ourselves, and that is our call to Jesus. I think it is correct to say that our most comfortable places break in the light of Jesus from the inside, in order that we may take the necessary steps to be with Jesus. ‘Faith is not comfortable. I think that we can all receive the message of the rolling away of the rock from the tomb of Lazarus to say something of vital importance to ourselves concerning our openness to God’s love. The rock we roll away can come in all sorts of guises, but we know when we are blocked, and I firmly believe if we are truthful then we know where those blocks might be. ‘Next Sunday, which will be Palm Sunday, we process as it were to Jerusalem, to begin our Holy Week. Now as I speak to you we are on the brink. Even now, I suggest it might be very good for all of us to lay aside what we think we know, to fall apart a little, and so […]
