Poetry of the Cross: The Agonie.

Philosophers have measur’d mountains, Fathom’d the depths of seas, of states, and kings, Walk’d with a staffe to heav’n, and traced fountains: But there are two vast, spacious things, The which to measure it doth more behove: Yet few there are that sound them; Sinne and Love. Who would know Sinne, let him repair Unto mount Olivet; there shall he see A man so wrung with pains, that all his hair, His skinne, his garments bloudie be. Sinne is that presse and vice, which forceth pain To hunt his cruell food through ev’ry vein. Who knows not Love, let him assay And taste that juice, which on the crosse a pike Did set again abroach; then let him say If ever he did taste the like. Love in that liquour sweet and most divine, Which my God feels as bloud; but I, as wine.

—George Herbert, 1633

More Poetry of the Cross

• Rosemary at Seasonings of the Heart: In the Cross of Christ I Glory
• Dorothy at Field Stone Cottage: By the Cross of Jesus Standing
• Candyinsierras has written her own cross poem: The Shift of Spring
• Updated to add two more: Dorothy (see above) had added one of her own poems, too—Salvation.
  
• And Kim of The Upward Call has posted Crucifying.
  

You are welcome to join me in my celebration of Poetry of the Cross if you wish. Just post a cross-centered poem any day of this week (or every day of this week) and send me the link to your poem. I’ll link back to your poem in the next Poetry of the Cross post.

Poetry of the Cross: Jesus of the Scars

If we have never sought, we seek Thee now;
Thine eyes burn through the dark, our only stars;
We must have sight of thorn-pricks on Thy brow;
We must have Thee, O Jesus of the Scars.

The heavens frighten us; they are too calm;
In all the universe we have no place.
Our wounds are hurting us; where is the balm?
Lord Jesus, by Thy Scars we claim Thy grace.

If when the doors are shut, Thou drawest near,
Only reveal those hands, that side of Thine;
We know today what wounds are; have no fear;
Show us Thy Scars; we know the countersign.

The other gods were strong, but Thou wast weak;
They rode, but Thou didst stumble to a throne;
But to our wounds only God’s wounds can speak,
And not a god has wounds, but Thou alone.

—-Rev. Edward Shillito

Congregationalist minister Edward Shillito wrote this poem from the viewpoint of the maimed and suffering British soldiers returning from WWI.

More Poetry of the Cross

• Brandon at Siris: One of my favorite cross poems from one of my favorite poets.
  

You are welcome to join me in my celebration of Poetry of the Cross if you wish. Just post a cross-centered poem any day of this week (or every day of this week) and send me the link to your poem. I’ll link back to your poem in the next Poetry of the Cross post.

O Wert Thou in the Cauld Blast

O wert thou in the cauld blast,
On yonder lea, on yonder lea,
My plaidie to the angry airt,
I’d shelter thee, I’d shelter thee;
Or did Misfortune’s bitter storms
Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
Thy bield should be my bosom,
To share it a’, to share it a’.

Or were I in the wildest waste,
Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,
The desert were a Paradise,
If thou wert there, if thou wert there;
Or were I Monarch o’ the globe,
Wi’ thee to reign, wi’ thee to reign,
The brightest jewel in my Crown
Wad be my Queen,  be my Queen.

Today, January 25, is Rabbie Burns Day, the bard’s birthday and the day when celebratory Burn’s suppers are traditionally held. In the name of efficiency, I’m posting a weather related poem in commemoration.

More Burns: Sherry of Semicolon has posted a collection of Burn’s graces.