Trinity Sunday

Lord, who hast form’d me out of mud,
 And hast redeem’d me through thy blood,
 And sanctifi’d me to do good; 

Purge all my sins done heretofore:
 For I confess my heavy score,
 And I will strive to sin no more. 

Enrich my heart, mouth, hands in me,
 With faith, with hope, with charity;
 That I may run, rise, rest with thee.

       George Herbert (1593–1633)

Happy Trinity Sunday!  This jewel-like lyric makes its meaning perfectly plain on the first reading, but then — a revelation to which I owe John Drury in ‘Music at Midnight’, his unforgettable biography of Herbert (London: Penguin, 2013) — notice all the threes wrapped up so tightly in it.  Three stanzas of three lines each; the first giving one line each to the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, the second to the past, the present and the future, and the last having three elements in each line, thrice three.

Fr. Mark Langham preached another wonderful homily this morning from Fisher House, the Catholic Chaplaincy of the University of Cambridge.  The Mass can be seen and heard here; Fr. Mark’s sermon begins 18 minutes and 23 seconds into the video.

But Men Made Strange

Today our parish’s Youth Choir sang for Palm Sunday Mass, and one of our hymns was My Song is Love Unknown: Samuel Crossman’s words set to music by John Ireland.  I am sure that this is one of the greatest treasures of English hymnody.  There is such coiled power in these deftly-crafted words; such truth in this effortless rhyme and metre.  Crossman (1623-1683) managed to mingle profound tenderness with plain speaking, sincerity with irony, remorse with mercy and great theological learning with directness.  The remarkable mood and accomplished craft, and the understated intimacy, remind me of George Herbert: every time I read the words, there seems to be something new to notice.  And, in spite of the disarming directness of Crossman’s first person, there is nothing embarrassing about it: he speaks in such a universal way that the song has lost none of its power in nearly four centuries.  Of course, it is also true that the mystery on which he meditates is undiminished:

 He came from His blest throne

 Salvation to bestow;

 But men made strange, and none

 The longed-for Christ would know:

 But O! my Friend, 

 My Friend indeed,

 Who at my need 

 His life did spend.

This Wikipedia article gives all seven verses.

The drama of Holy Week, which has been drawing near all through Lent, is upon us.  Last week all  the statues and crucifixes in church were veiled in purple for Passiontide.  (The shocking sparseness of churches stripped for Holy Week is another, hidden reason for our usual custom of decorating them).  Today we heard the account of the Passion read, entering into the joy of the Palm Sunday crowd, only to sprinkle our tongues with the same crowd’s later bitterness and sarcasm, and to be drawn into its mad obsession with Barabbas.  Now the stage is set: the clouds are gathering and, together, with apprehension, we enter into these mysterious, shadowy days.

‘Rise heart; thy Lord is risen’

After Lent’s long flatness and sinking into bitter hollowness in Holy Week, especially on Good Friday (which this year, for the first time I can remember, was not shrouded in pallid cloud at three o’clock), Easter has dawned upon us.  Happy Feast!

Here is a setting by Ralph Vaughan Williams (again, sorry) of fitting words by George Herbert:
  

Easter.

Rise heart; thy Lord is risen.  Sing his praise
                                                  Without delayes,
Who takes thee by the hand, that thou likewise
                                                  With him mayst rise:
That, as his death calcined thee to dust,
His life may make thee gold, and much more, just.

Awake, my lute, and struggle for thy part
                                                  With all thy art.
The crosse taught all wood to resound his name,
                                                  Who bore the same.
His stretched sinews taught all strings, what key
Is best to celebrate this most high day.

Consort both heart and lute, and twist a song
                                                  Pleasant and long:
Or, since all musick is but three parts vied
                                                  And multiplied,
O let thy blessed Spirit bear a part,

And make up our defects with his sweet art.

George Herbert (1593–1633)

I cannot resist including another monunental rendition of the same music at the Royal Albert Hall in London on the Last Night of the Proms in 2004:

Ten Poems for National Poetry Day

Since it is National Poetry Day, there is no excuse not to compile a list (though inexhaustive) of some favourite poems that I think are worth sharing.  I think they might also appeal to any readers who consider themselves new to, or unfamiliar with poetry… or even ‘averse to verse’!  If they can be read online, I have given links to them.  Here they are:

1. ‘Moonlit Apples’ — John Drinkwater.  A poem to be whispered at midnight… ‘And quiet is the steep stair under.’
2. ‘Paddington: Mother and Son’ — John Masefield.  Perhaps the simplest and the greatest war poem I know; its whole weight rests on the slow and remorseless beat of the four final words.  It is not online but is included in this anthology; a good local library ought to have a copy.
3. ‘The Trees’ — Philip Larkin.  Why is it that only Larkin’s sour poetry ever seems to be quoted?  He was capable of sincerely beautiful poetic utterances: this is an example.
4. ‘In Memoriam: Easter, 1915’. — Edward Thomas.  Another war poem whose weight rests upon a few words, ‘left’, ‘should’ and ‘never’, and whose meaning drops into the mind slowly but catastrophically.  I have written about it more here.
5. ‘A Chorus’ — Elizabeth Jennings.  This poem sets off with great momentum and soaring majesty but gradually lowers its voice until, in the last lines, both its subject matter and its register are intimate and almost confessional.
6. ‘The Old Liberals’ — John Betjeman.  It can be read about half-way down this page.  I find this poem very moving, even though I still don’t completely understand it and am not sure how seriously to take it.  ‘Sad as an English autumn, heavy and still’ is one of the truest lines of poetry I have ever come across.  And there is something about the easy conversational glibness of saying ‘Ask at the fish and chips in the Market Square’ that is also powerfully sorrowful.
7. ‘Pilgrimages’ — R.S. Thomas.  It is about Bardsey Island, the ‘island of twenty thousand saints’, just off the edge of the Lleyn Peninsula at the tip of N. Wales.
8. ‘Love bade me welcome’ — George Herbert.  Another intimate poem: its gentleness has survived intact for nearly four centuries.  ‘But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack / From my first entrance in […]’ is a line so light and so even that its gentle beauty could easily go unnoticed.  And neither has time diminished the anguished remorse and disbelief in the protest ‘I, the unkinde, ungratefull?’.  Ralph Vaughan Williams also set it to music.
9. ‘Woolgathering’ — Wilfrid Wilson Gibson.  It can be read halfway down this page.  A whimsical utterance in plain English which can easily be learnt by heart.
10. ‘A Gable Wall’ — Maolsheachlann O Ceallaigh.  This poem, full of movement, lifts up ordinary life in order to celebrate it, as does most of his poetry.  I always enjoy, and strongly recommend, the rest of his blog as well.

There are many other poems that I could have mentioned… doubtless I will find an excuse to post them in the future!