The four last things

This past December, a former professor of mine preached on George Herbert's "four last things" poems as a way to mark the four Sundays of Advent. The texts have been made available online and each one of them is worth a look.

• Sermon 1: Death
• Sermon 2: Judgment
• Sermon 3: Heaven 
• Sermon 4: Hell 

"Christmas" by George Herbert

( I )

After all pleasures as I rid one day,
My horse and I, both tired, body and mind,
With full cry of affections, quite astray;
I took up the next inn I could find.

There when I came, whom found I but my dear,
My dearest Lord, expecting till the grief
Of pleasures brought me to Him, ready there
To be all passengers' most sweet relief?

Oh Thou, whose glorious, yet contracted light,
Wrapt in night's mantle, stole into a manger;
Since my dark soul and brutish is Thy right,
To man of all beasts be not Thou a stranger:

Furnish and deck my soul, that Thou mayst have
A better lodging, than a rack, or grave.


( II )

The shepherds sing; and shall I silent be?
      My God, no hymn for Thee?
My soul's a shepherd too; a flock it feeds
      Of thoughts, and words, and deeds.
The pasture is Thy word: the streams, Thy grace
      Enriching all the place.
Shepherd and flock shall sing, and all my powers
      Outsing the daylight hours.
Then will we chide the sun for letting night
      Take up his place and right:
We sing one common Lord; wherefore he should
      Himself the candle hold.
I will go searching, till I find a sun
      Shall stay, till we have done;
A willing shiner, that shall shine as gladly,
      As frost-nipped suns look sadly.
Then will we sing, and shine all our own day,
      And one another pay:
His beams shall cheer my breast, and both so twine,
Till ev'n His beams sing, and my music shine.

Christmas by George Herbert

                            (I)

After all pleasures as I rid one day,
My horse and I, both tired, body and mind,
With full cry of affections, quite astray;
I took up the next inn I could find.

There when I came, whom found I but my dear,
My dearest Lord, expecting till the grief
Of pleasures brought me to Him, ready there
To be all passengers' most sweet relief?

Oh Thou, whose glorious, yet contracted light,
Wrapt in night's mantle, stole into a manger;
Since my dark soul and brutish is Thy right,
To man of all beasts be not Thou a stranger:

Furnish and deck my soul, that Thou mayst have
A better lodging, than a rack, or grave.

                            (II)

The shepherds sing; and shall I silent be?
      My God, no hymn for Thee?
My soul's a shepherd too; a flock it feeds
      Of thoughts, and words, and deeds.
The pasture is Thy word: the streams, Thy grace
      Enriching all the place.
Shepherd and flock shall sing, and all my powers
      Outsing the daylight hours.
Then will we chide the sun for letting night
      Take up his place and right:
We sing one common Lord; wherefore he should
      Himself the candle hold.
I will go searching, till I find a sun
      Shall stay, till we have done;
A willing shiner, that shall shine as gladly,
      As frost-nipped suns look sadly.
Then will we sing, and shine all our own day,
      And one another pay:
His beams shall cheer my breast, and both so twine,
Till ev'n His beams sing, and my music shine. 

Good Friday.

O My chief good, How shall I measure out thy bloud? How shall I count what thee befell, And each grief tell? Shall I thy woes Number according to thy foes? Or, since one starre show’d thy first breath, Shall all thy death? Or shall each leaf, Which falls in Autumn, score a grief? Or can not leaves, but fruit, be signe Of the true vine? Then let each houre Of my whole life one grief devoure; That thy distresse through all may runne, And be my sunne. Or rather let My severall sinnes their sorrows get; That as each beast his cure doth know, Each sinne may so. Since bloud is fittest, Lord, to write Thy sorrows in, and bloudie fight; My heart hath store, write there, where in One box doth lie both ink and sinne: That when sinne spies so many foes, Thy whips, thy nails, thy wounds, thy woes, All come to lodge there, sinne may say, No room for me, and flie away. Sinne being gone, oh fill the place, And keep possession with thy grace; Lest sinne take courage and return, And all the writings blot or burn. ~George Herbert