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.
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 […]
Jesus has told Peter that he is to be the chief among the Apostles, the primate of the Church. During the Passion, Peter denied Jesus three times. It is perhaps for this reason that Jesus now gives Peter three opportunities to declare his love for him, three times to atone for his triple denial. Each time, Jesus responds with the command to lead the Church: ‘Feed my lambs… Feed my sheep.’ Peter and his successors are to be shepherds of the whole Church, imitating Jesus as Jesus declared himself to be in the parable of the Good Shepherd [ … ]
John Donne’s Holy Sonnet 14, beginning, ‘Batter my heart, three-person’d God,’ enacts a struggle between divine grace and human resistance, expressed through forceful imagery and paradox. The speaker does not ask for gentle persuasion but for a radical upheaval of the self. The poem presents a mind at war with itself, aware of divine sovereignty yet bound by sin, seeking liberation through subjugation [ … ]
