Christian Art | George Herbert | The Temple | The Church | Grace
George Herbert | The Temple | The Church | Grace
My stock lies dead, and no increase
Doth my dull husbandrie improve:
O let thy graces without cease
Drop from above!
If still the sunne should hide his face,
Thy house would but a dungeon prove,
Thy works nights captives: O let grace
Drop from above!
The dew doth ev’ry morning fall;
And shall the dew out-strip thy dove?
The dew, for which grasse cannot call,
Drop from above.
Death is still working like a mole,
And digs my grave at each remove:
Let grace work too, and on my soul
Drop from above.
Sinne is still hammering my heart
Unto a hardnesse, void of love:
Let suppling grace, to crosse his art,
Drop from above.
O come! for thou dost know the way.
Or if to me thou wilt not move,
Remove me, where I need not say,
Drop from above.
George Herbert | The Temple | The Church | Grace
In this poem, Herbert expresses a yearning for divine grace to enliven and sustain his spiritual life. Herbert begins by admitting a sense of spiritual stagnation, stating, ‘My stock lies dead, and no increase / Doth my dull husbandry improve.’ Here, Herbert characterizes his inner resources or spiritual vitality as unproductive, and he attributes this lack to his own insufficient efforts, likened to a ‘dull husbandry’, or poor cultivation. This admission reveals Herbert’s dependence on external, divine intervention for renewal, as he implores grace to ‘drop from above’.
The repeated refrain ‘Drop from above!’ emphasizes Herbert’s awareness of grace as a necessary force, one that must be continually bestowed by God. Each stanza builds on the sense of this need, linking the grace of God to natural imagery. Herbert compares his dependency on divine grace to the dependence of the earth on the sun: ‘If still the sun should hide his face, / Thy house would but a dungeon prove.’ Here, ‘Thy house’ can be read as both the earthly world and the human soul, both of which rely on God’s grace, symbolized as sunlight, for life and purpose. Without this divine ‘sun’, Herbert suggests, his existence would feel dark and imprisoning.
The image of morning dew introduces a gentler parallel to sunlight as a source of grace: ‘The dew doth every morning fall; / And shall the dew outstrip thy dove?’ The reference to the dew, which naturally ‘falls’ each morning without needing to be called, serves as a quiet yet essential blessing from God. This comparison implies Herbert’s desire for God’s grace to be just as constant and life-giving as the dew that sustains plant life. The dove, symbolizing the Holy Spirit, is called upon to grant a similar quiet but sustaining grace.
Herbert contrasts divine grace with darker forces at work. Death, personified as a mole, ‘digs my grave at each remove’, reflecting Herbert’s awareness of mortality and the constant threat it poses to his soul. In parallel to death’s destructive actions, ‘Sin is still hammering my heart / Unto a hardness, void of love’. Here, sin is portrayed as shaping the heart into an unfeeling, hardened state, devoid of spiritual life. In response to these threats, Herbert asks for ‘suppling grace’, or a softening force, to counteract sin’s hardening effects. This dual presence of grace and sin reflects the inner struggle faced by Herbert, who feels vulnerable to forces of both spiritual decay and salvation.
The final stanza introduces a tone of urgency and surrender: ‘O come! for thou dost know the way.’ Herbert’s invitation to God to ‘come’ implies a desire for direct divine intervention. Acknowledging that God knows ‘the way’ highlights Herbert’s trust in God’s wisdom and omniscience, despite his own lack of direction. Herbert closes with a paradoxical plea: if God will not descend to him, then let he be removed to a place where grace is present without need for further asking. This suggests a longing for spiritual elevation or a transcendent state of union with God, where Herbert’s need for grace will be fully satisfied.
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 […]
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