Malcolm Guite alerted me to the fact that this is the date that the Church of England remembers George Herbert. (As I write, that day has passed for many of you.) He posted his sonnet for the occasion, but I am re-posting from a few years back a poem from Herbert himself. Once my late husband gave me a collection of Herbert’s poetry, and it just occurs to me that I might add that to my stack of Lenten reading, to fill out the poetry genre of the group.
Someone has said that to fast, in the Christian tradition, is to feast with the angels. I think that must be something like the feast Herbert is referring to here:
Already my eyes touch the sunlit hill, far ahead of the road I have just begun. So we are grasped by what we cannot grasp; we see its light, even from a distance-and it changes us, even if we do not reach it, into something else, which, hardly sensing it, we already are; a gesture seems to wave us on, answering our own wave… but what we feel is the wind in our faces.
I noticed this week that the oxalis I call sourgrass is sprouting up, already a foot tall and heavy with rain, in various places in the garden. I don’t think it is blooming yet, but as I am reminded by looking at my old photo at the bottom here, it does begin its celebrating while the fruit trees are still dark and bare. So it could happen soon. The Iceland poppies are already showy.
Today was mostly drizzly, but eventually the clouds gathered into distinct groups and let the sun shine through; they stood off to the sides looking majestic. Turning our gaze in the other direction, let’s give a thought to the “farmworkers down under,” who may slow down in the winter, but they continue making their contribution to the lovely world, God bless them.
THE EARTHWORM
Who really respects the earthworm, the farmworker far under the grass in the soil. He keeps the earth always changing. He works entirely full of soil, speechless with soil, and blind.
He is the underneath farmer, the underground one, where the fields are getting on their harvest clothes. Who really respects him, this deep and calm earth-worker, this deathless, gray, tiny farmer in the planet’s soil.
My Soul, there is a country Afar beyond the stars, Where stands a winged sentry All skillful in the wars; There, above noise and danger Sweet Peace sits, crown’d with smiles, And One born in a manger Commands the beauteous files. He is thy gracious friend And (O my Soul awake!) Did in pure love descend, To die here for thy sake. If thou canst get but thither, There grows the flow’r of peace, The rose that cannot wither, Thy fortress, and thy ease. Leave then thy foolish ranges, For none can thee secure, But One, who never changes, Thy God, thy life, thy cure.
I noticed this week that the oxalis I call sourgrass is sprouting up, already a foot tall and heavy with rain, in various places in the garden. I don’t think it is blooming yet, but as I am reminded by looking at my old photo at the bottom here, it does begin its celebrating while the fruit trees are still dark and bare. So it could happen soon. The Iceland poppies are already showy.
Gladsome Lights 