The Agony | George Herbert | Christian Poems
George Herbert: 17th-century poet and Anglican priest. In ‘The Agony’, Herbert explores core mysteries of Christian faith, encouraging a deeper reflection on the nature of sin, the cost of redemption, and the transformative power of divine love.
‘The Agony’, part of Herbert’s collection ‘The Temple’, Herbert explores theological dimensions of sin, suffering, and redemption. This poem, through its triadic structure, conveys complex spiritual truths through poetic form.
‘The Agony’ commences with a philosophical reflection on the nature of sin. Herbert employs striking imagery to illustrate sin’s pervasive influence and the burden it imposes on the human soul. He begins with an epistemological musing: ‘Philosophers have measured mountains, / Fathom’d the depths of seas, of states, and kings, / Walk’d with a 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.’ Herbert suggests sin and love to be the most profound human experiences, and so explores such implications as arise.
In the first stanza, Herbert presents sin as a corruptive force. The metaphor ‘juice’ refers to Christ’s blood, which becomes wine in the Eucharist. Herbert writes, ‘Who knows not Love, let him assay / And taste that juice, which on the cross a pike / Did set again abroach; then let him say / If ever he did taste the like.’ This metaphorical language emphasizes the tangible and bitter reality of sin, and the transformative power of Christ’s sacrifice, linking the physical reality of the crucifixion to the spiritual nourishment provided through the sacrament of Communion.
The second stanza transitions to Christ’s suffering, with a particular focus on Jesus’ agony in Gethsemane and the crucifixion. Herbert’s depiction of Christ’s torment encapsulates both physical and spiritual dimensions of suffering. He writes, ‘There is no thraldom which is so exact / As to be master’d by a soul wrought free.’ These verses capture the profound internal struggle and the ultimate submission to divine will that define Christ’s experience in Gethsemane. Herbert’s portrayal brings readers into the depths of Christ’s agony, highlighting its significance as an act of unparalleled love and redemption.
In the third stanza, Herbert examines the redemptive power of Christ’s suffering. Herbert contrasts the agony induced by sin with the hope and healing provided through Christ’s sacrifice. Herbert writes, ‘Love is that liquor sweet and most divine, / Which my God feels as blood; but I, as wine.’ The metaphor expresses the transformative essence of Christ’s sacrifice, turning suffering into salvation. Imagery of blood and wine joins the crucifixion with the Eucharist, reinforcing the theme of redemption, and enduring impact of Christ’s sacrifice, the agony, on believers. Herbert’s construction of this narrative—from sin through suffering to redemption—invites readers to contemplate the sacrificial love of Jesus.
The Agony | George Herbert | Christian Poems
Philosophers have measur’d mountains,
Fathom’d the depths of seas, of states, and kings,
Walk’d with a 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 wrung 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 abroach; 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.
This passage from Gaudium et Spes moves from principle to application, describing the Christian obligation to promote peace through justice, solidarity, and practical service. The Council presents this not as an abstract ideal but as a concrete expression of discipleship within a world divided by inequality and conflict [ … ]
The Carrefour will be open, where I can buy nuts for the red squirrel, who lives in Campo Grande. The red squirrel is Valladolid’s best bit. Even as a child, I had never seen one before, apart from in picture books. It was last term’s discovery. The most beautiful encounter. I didn’t know it was there – in the park. A complete surprise. The tiny little thing bobbled and hopped, as it received in its little hands a nut from the man’s hands. Each surprising instant – it was childlike. I whispered: ‘Oh my wow.’ I walk toward the El Cortes Ingles. There is, for now, that settled feel of friends in bookshops. Though a null-affect, neutral day – it won’t glean, it is not to be scratched at. The queues are long in the Carrefour. Though, as it might be, on relatively modest incomes, many people live centrally. Their behaviours neither pinched nor stark. Yet the shop so busy while the street so empty… An error in the simulation, a glitch in the code. I potter about the aisles, which are pleasant enough, then at the tills I flinch at how expensive a little bag of up-sold nuts can be. Nonetheless, I queue for a packet of almonds. Two English men queue directly ahead of me. They are stocky, and have gay voices, their wheelie-bucket piled with soft drinks and party food, while they bitch to one another about the obviously terrible party they’re going to. The air heaves relief as I wander up the way to the broad plaza fringing Campo Grande. This is a place to see – a piece of Spain. There is a tourist information office, though unopened. At these fountains, three girls take selfies. Pompous-looking buildings, the military offices aside, line the park’s nearest vicinities. Hotel-bars have their patches. Liveried doormen idle time, for there are no paying customers, in and out the doorways’ shadows. A mixed group of kids play at the hoops on the pedestrian boulevard, and two boys practise on skateboards, working the thing out. I pass by them, touched by the thought, and happy that they are there. Wistful, I smile at the odds of the ball spilling over to me, and play in mind the agreeable scene of a fleeting connection. Then I am through the park gates. An air now – of humanity become self-selecting. Modestly understated. Understatedly modest. Campo Grande is nice but it isn’t grande… I walk slowly, and very soon hear for a second time English voices. Not them – it is an English family, just a little way ahead, a Dad and a Mum and a younger boy and an older girl, and theirs are Midlands accents. Dad seems to have been here and to know the place. He gestures panoramically. Mum wants her lunch. The girl at a difficult age. She carries a balloon-on-a-stick. Though she is sprouting – yet wears a loud dress. Then leggings, trainers. Her hair is nice… Maybe she is being okay about it. And not horrific. It’s okay once they get into it, but those months… Yet then, they mostly blossom, if they come from a good home, and become rounded personalities, entering into their womanhood. It was that… when yet they weren’t… I shudder to think of it. They walk toward the pond, and I trail, and would follow had I not been going that way. I wish I could say something so they might hear I am English too. (Fake a phone call?) How my voice might sound – there’d be all college hurling around in such matter I… a demented thing, ludicrous blurt – of Henry, Geoff, and all of them – not to mention the personal predicament. Maybe they’re a nice family. She is letting him explain what he needs to explain. And it would blow his fire, me being English. Mum and Dad. You’d probably see them all having their lunch in a little while. All sat round the table. With napkins and the menus out. Dad looks safe. I look into the pond. Terrapins live in there. But not today. I walk toward the join in the paths where the squirrel lives. There, I crumple the packet of almonds, making noise. I peer and I squat and crouch – chewing a mouthful. All the peacocks have perched right up in the trees’ branches. That never looks like something they should be doing. It’s disappointing that the squirrel isn’t here – but then the not-knowing-if is a part of it. Now, next, my visit to the National Sculpture Museum is an obligation. Canon Peter stood literally aghast when I hadn’t heard of it. Mortified, I made resolute promises. Though a few weeks have passed, it isn’t just any old something I could do on the hoof. A great commitment – it must command a known and prepared and anticipated not-just-any-old-time. But, rather, the sort you must wait for – and listen for. [ … ] Beyond Plaza Mayor, there would be a brief series of old-town alleyways. The National Sculpture Museum would be – just up there, this archway, this next…They are bleached and forgotten-looking walls, and the smoothed paving could be medieval. Not that it is making Tomàs anxious – I follow the map. A kind of place – uneasy credit-cards, and modern vaccinations, and a phone, might not help much. I fancy I feel the back-wall of a church, and that – fancifully – pressure-release drawn out of me. Only I am playing games in a nice way – making play-scared on the uncertainty – with only myself to see. The National Museum is there, modestly signed on stencilled plexiglass stuck to the stone wall. A uniformed lady sits just a little way inside the doorway. She reassures me there is no money required, and directs me over the courtyard into the planned route, showing me where I can pick up a free map. I get my […]
Theodoret takes his starting point from Isaiah 53, the ‘Suffering Servant’ passage, which early Christians read as a direct prophecy of Christ’s passion. The language of wounds, bruises and chastisement is interpreted not as a description of punishment deserved by Jesus himself, but as the cost he bore to heal humanity. For Theodoret, the cross is not only an act of endurance but also a medicine—a deliberate remedy for the sickness of sin [ … ]
