Christian Art | George Herbert | The Temple | The Church | The Reprisall
George Herbert | The Temple | The Church | The Reprisall
I have consider’d it, and finde
There is no dealing with thy mighty passion:
For though I die for thee, I am behinde;
My sinnes deserve the condemnation.
O make me innocent, that I
May give a disentangled state and free:
And yet thy wounds still my attempts defie,
For by thy death I die for thee.
Ah! was it not enough that thou
By thy eternall glorie didst outgo me?
Couldst thou not griefs sad conquests me allow,
But in all vict’ries overthrow me?
Yet by confession will I come
Into the conquest. Though I can do nought
Against thee, in thee I will overcome
The man, who once against thee fought.
George Herbert | The Temple | The Church | The Reprisall
The poem contemplates the poet’s relationship to Christ’s sacrifice, focusing on themes of inadequacy, grace, and surrender. It opens with the poet’s realization that human efforts cannot ‘deal with’ or match Christ’s ‘mighty passion’, which represents Christ’s intense suffering and ultimate sacrifice. The poet acknowledges that even if he were to die for Christ, he would still ‘lag behind’, as his own sins are deserving of condemnation. This indicates a sense of spiritual and moral inferiority, highlighting a gap between human and divine capacity for sacrifice and atonement.
The poet then asks for innocence, seeking to attain a ‘disentangled state and free’, implying a desire to be unburdened by sin and guilt. This request underscores the poet’s awareness that only through purity can he fully offer himself to Christ. However, the phrase ‘thy wounds still my attempts defy’ suggests that, despite his intentions, the poet’s efforts at achieving spiritual purity fall short in light of Christ’s crucifixion wounds, symbols of a sacrifice beyond what any human could perform. The line ‘For by thy death I die for thee’ reflects a paradox: the poet’s own spiritual redemption or ‘death to sin’ is achieved through Christ’s sacrifice, not through his own actions.
The next stanza introduces a question of balance and fairness in the relationship between the poet and Christ. The poet reflects that Christ’s ‘eternal glory’ already far exceeds human ability, questioning whether Christ’s additional suffering was necessary to secure this redemptive relationship. By stating, ‘Couldst thou not grief’s sad conquests me allow,’ the poet implies a desire for some shared role in the ‘conquest’ of sin and suffering. However, ‘in all victories overthrow me’ reinforces that Christ’s actions surpass any possible human contribution. Christ’s victory, achieved through Christ’s suffering and sacrifice, entirely overshadows human grief and achievements, leaving the poet in a state of awe but also humility.
In the final stanza, the poet accepts his limitations and decides to embrace a different approach—confession and unity with Christ rather than competition. ‘By confession will I come / Into the conquest’ suggests that admission of sin and the need for grace can offer a form of shared victory. The poet acknowledges that he can ‘do nought / Against thee,’ signifying the futility of human opposition or self-reliance in spiritual matters. Yet, he proposes that through uniting with Christ, he can ‘overcome / The man, who once against thee fought.’ Here, the poet’s struggle shifts from one of achieving parity with Christ to overcoming his own sinfulness. This phrase suggests a transformation in which the poet’s confession and surrender to Christ allow him to ‘conquer’ his former self, who had lived in opposition to divine will.
The poem explores the poet’s journey from recognizing his limitations to accepting that redemption requires surrender to Christ’s grace. Rather than emulating Christ’s sacrifice through self-effort, the poet seeks alignment with it, understanding that his role lies in humility, confession, and reliance on Christ’s completed work. The poet’s perceived inability to match Christ’s sacrifice is ultimately reframed as a path to grace, where surrender, not parity, brings unity.
Mark’s Gospel tells us that, astonishingly quickly, Jesus has become the focus of a vast popular movement. He is preaching in Galilee, and his listeners have come all the way from Judea, from Jerusalem, and from Jordan, Tyre and Sidon. It is an international crowd, and these really are great distances. Jerusalem is over 100 kilometres from Lake Galilee, at its nearest point and as the crow flies. That’s a good few days on foot, and no package tour pilgrimage [ … ]
Sometimes, when I read my Bible, I pause in the reading and say to myself: ‘This bit’s real.’ It would be fair to say, I have issues with Mary, because, contrary to what we are taught to say, Mary isn’t my mother. Rather: Mum is. One bit of the Bible-text says this: And when his family heard it, they went out to seize him, for people were saying, “He is beside himself.” … And his mother and his brothers came; and standing outside they sent to him and called him. And a crowd was sitting about him; and they said to him, “Your mother and your brothers are outside, asking for you.” And he replied, “Who are my mother and my brothers?” And looking around on those who sat about him, he said, “Here are my mother and my brothers! Whoever does the will of God is my brother, and sister, and mother.” (Mark 3: 21; 31-35.) Here she comes. She is in considerable distress. I can imagine that. I can relate to that. To save her boy from whatever he’s got himself into this time. And you’re not telling me there isn’t something inside that. Her boy is beside himself. Radical. Radicalized. Radicalizing. A misunderstood word. /ˈradɪk(ə)l/ adjective & noun. 1 Forming the root, basis, or foundation; original, primary. 2a Inherent in the nature of a thing or person; fundamental. b Of action, change, an idea: going to the root or origin; far-reaching, thorough. c Advocating thorough or far-reaching change. d Characterized by departure from tradition; progressive; unorthodox. ‘He has a demon! And he is mad!’ – thus ‘the Jews’. (e.g. John 10: 20.) Come home! It’s all she wants. His family want him back now. But it is an exclusive cult: there is an inside and there is an outside; and on the outside, they are not meant to understand, lest they be converted. He has defined himself as different from anything she was. Only at the end does Jesus say to his Mum – and with savage, bitter irony: ‘Woman, behold your son.’ And then he dies. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. We ask that we might find Mary in our hearts as a Yes! place for Jesus. It is also recommended that we pray to Jesus that we may be further in oneness with Mary. It is self-emptying, such that we only exist insofar as we are responsive to God’s Word. * Last term, and put-out to pasture, the old Archbishop Emeritus came over to stay for a few days and did the odd class with us. He spoke of Yes! as the meaning of Mary’s virginity. And we were not very nice about him. One or two took umbrage. One or two got the hump. In a sense, his Grace, the Arch, basically wanted to move anyone he’d ever known from a high-place – a mountain – received theological ‘truth’ – to an imminent, human plane. Earthing the spiritual. Recalibrating metrics of life’s believability toward a spiritual sense of things. He might have asked the impermissible question: what happened? His Grace described it. God’s love as a cloud. This descended upon Mary – and subsumed her. Within the cloud, Mary capitulated utterly. She became only and purely a response to God’s love. As he spoke, the Arch cradled her. He carried her in his lap – in his hands. His Grace was a consecrated bishop. He was faith. He sat squat, a rounded man, hands cupped and ankles crossed, fingers interlocked, with parted thighs. Rumpled, washed, speckled. A lifetime’s skin… There could be no doubt His Grace spoke through long-term personal relationship with Mary. It was Julian went for him: ‘So are you saying Mary was a Virgin? Or are you not saying Mary was a Virgin?’ Nasty. No, it wasn’t pretty. Julian twisting his silver ring. For a moment, what Julian had said to the Arch simply failed to communicate. No, for a moment, that dumped on the air meant nothing. Then His Grace said: ‘There is a range of possible meanings we may understand in the question of Mary’s virginity. For example, there are understandings of the word virginity entailed in the action of giving birth.’ Julian said: ‘Duh! So had she had sex or hadn’t she?’ Trigger words. No, it wasn’t pretty. On that went for a little while. At length, Julian’s point seemed reluctantly conceded. Then the Arch told us a new story, an additionally human event, the more to baffle us. Controversially, he told us that Mary could not have been Joseph’s first wife, for this would not have been the way of things in the society of that time. His belief was that Joseph must have taken Mary into his household through pity. That would be normal, he said, for Joseph to bring a young, vulnerable girl, who is about to have a baby, within his protection, not meaning to enjoy with her marital relations, but through kindness. ‘And this story of the inn and stable,’ the Archbishop said, ‘it can’t have been like that really. Joseph has travelled with Mary to stay with his family, at home in Bethlehem, and they don’t want Mary in their house, for reasons which I am sure we can understand. It must have been there was considerable resistance to Mary. But Mary gives birth, and who can resist a baby? That’s what happened. It must have been. ‘I’m convinced that must have been how it happened really.’ Later that term, toward the beginning of Advent, we met boys who had been here before, in Valladolid, and now were in regular seminary. They had heard and recited verbatim all the Archbishop had said to them. Their spot-on impressions of each of the fathers were scathing. […]
The presence of angels in the Gospels expressed incarnation of the divine in the person of Jesus Christ. Angels heralded Jesus’ coming, rejoicing in the birth of the Saviour. In the Gospel of Luke, an angel announced to the shepherds, ‘Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord’ (Luke 2:10-11, KJV) [ … ]
