#george herbert
Passio Discerpta XVII. “Monumenta aperta” – George Herbert (1593-1633)
While, My Life, you were dying,
The buried dead themselves arose,
And in exchange for one man bound
The throng was set free.
But you do not so much die for yourself
As live in them, and Death,
Now given breath, lays claim to your life.
By all means, go and seek
The Crucified among the tombs – he lives!
Many sepulchers overmaster
A single Cross. Thus, it is fitting
That God, in accord with His Majesty,
Should not lose the life
He bestowed, but multiply it.
Dum moreris, Mea Vita, ipsi vixere sepulti,
Proque uno vincto turba soluta fuit.
Tu tamen, haud tibi tam moreris, quam vivis in illis,
Asserit et vitam Mors animata tuam.
Scilicet in tumulis Crucifixum quaerite, vivit:
Convincunt unam multa sepulcra Crucem.
Sic, pro Maiestate, Deum, non perdere vitam
Quam tribuit, verum multiplicare decet.
The Dead Appear in the Temple, James Tissot, between 1886 and 1894
“Easter-Wings” – George Herbert (1593-1633)
Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store,
Though foolishly he lost the same,
Decaying more and more,
Till he became
Most poore:
With thee
O let me rise
As larks, harmoniously,
And sing this day thy victories:
Then shall the fall further the flight in me.
My tender age in sorrow did beginne
And still with sicknesses and shame.
Thou didst so punish sinne,
That I became
Most thinne.
With thee
Let me combine,
And feel thy victorie:
For, if I imp my wing on thine,
Affliction shall advance the flight in me.
The Resurrection of Christ, Juan Correa de Vivar (1510-1566)
Philosophers have measur’d mountains,
Fathom’d the depths of seas, of states and kings;
Walk’d with a staff 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, ‒ Sin and Love.
Who would know Sin, let him repair
Unto Mount Olivet; there shall he see
A Man so wrung with pains, that all His hair,
His skin, His garments bloody be.
Sin is that press and vice, which forceth pain
To hunt his cruel food through ev’ry vein.
Who knows not Love, let him assay
And taste that juice which, on the cross, a pike
Did set again abroach; then let him say
If ever he did taste the like,
Love is that liquor sweet and most divine,
Which my God feels as blood, but I as wine.
