Tried With Fire

This is a repost of a poem by George Herbert. It's long, but it's a beautiful reflection on Christ's sacrifice. O H all ye , who passe by, whose eyes and minde To worldly things are sharp, but to me blinde; To me, who took eyes that I might you finde: Was ever grief like mine? The Princes of my people make a head Against their Maker: they do wish me dead, Who cannot wish, except I give them bread; Was ever grief like mine? Without me each one, who doth now me brave, Had to this day been an Egyptian slave. They use that power against me, which I gave: Was ever grief like mine? Mine own Apostle, who the bag did beare, Though he had all I had, did not forbeare To sell me also, and to put me there: Was ever grief like mine? For thirtie pence he did my death devise, Who at thre...

M Y words & thoughts do both expresse this notion, That Life hath with the sun a double motion. The first  Is straight, and our diurnall friend, The   other   Hid and doth obliquely bend. One  life is wrapt  In flesh, and tends to earth: The other winds towards Him , whose happie birth Taught  me  to  live  here  so, That   still one eye Should aim and shoot at that which Is on high: Quitting    with   daily    labour   all    My   pleasure, To    gain    at    harvest     an    eternall     Treasure .

I threatened to observe the strict decree Of my deare God with all my power & might. But I was told by one, it could not be; Yet I might trust in God to be my light. Then will I trust, said I, in him alone. Nay, ev’n to trust in him, was also his: We must confesse that nothing is our own. Then I confesse that he my succour is: But to have nought is ours, not to confesse That we have nought. I stood amaz’d at this, Much troubled, till I heard a friend expresse, That all things were more ours by being his. What Adam had, and forfeited for all, Christ keepeth now, who cannot fail or fall. George Herbert

A  broken   A L T A R,  Lord,  thy  servant  reares, Made  of  a  heart,  and  cemented  with   teares: Whose  parts are as  thy hand did frame; No workmans tool hath touch’d the same. A   H E A R T alone Is such a   stone, As    nothing   but Thy pow’r doth cut. Wherefore each part Of  my   hard   heart Meets in this frame, To praise thy Name; That, if  I  chance  to  hold  my   peace, These stones to praise thee may not cease. O  let  thy  blessed   S A C R I F I C E   be  mine, And sanctifie  this   A L T A R   to   be   thine. George Herbert (1593-1633) The manger of Bethlehem. was big with glory; in Christ’s Incarnation was wrapped up all the blessedness by which a soul,...

No Calvin today. This poem by George Herbert  dovetails well with tomorrow's sermon on Mark 15 and fits my sober frame of mind after yesterday's tragedy in Connecticut. It's long but I hope you will read the whole thing. It's worth it. O H all ye , who passe by, whose eyes and minde To worldly things are sharp, but to me blinde; To me, who took eyes that I might you finde: Was ever grief like mine? The Princes of my people make a head Against their Maker: they do wish me dead, Who cannot wish, except I give them bread; Was ever grief like mine? Without me each one, who doth now me brave, Had to this day been an Egyptian slave. They use that power against me, which I gave: Was ever grief like mine? Mine own Apostle, who the bag did beare, Though he had all I had, did not forbeare To sell me also, and to put me there...