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March 26, 2016


  O BLESSED bodie! Whither art thou thrown?
  No lodging for thee, but a cold hard stone?
  So many hearts on earth, and yet not one
           Receive thee?

  Sure there is room within our hearts good store;
  For they can lodge transgressions by the score:
  Thousands of toyes dwell there, yet out of doore
           They leave thee.

  But that which shews them large, shews them unfit.
  Whatever sinne did this pure rock commit,
  Which holds thee now? Who hath indited it
           Of murder?

  Where our hard hearts have took up stones to brain* thee,
  And missing this, most falsely did arraigne thee;
  Onely these stones in quiet entertain thee,
           And order.

  And as of old, the law by heav’nly art,
  Was writ in stone; so thou, which also art
  The letter of the word, find’st no fit heart
           To hold thee.

  Yet do we still persist as we began,
  And so should perish, but that nothing can,
  Though it be cold, hard, foul, from loving man
           Withhold thee.


The Temple
George Herbert, The Works of George Herbert (London: George Routledge & Co., 1854), 33–34.


"The Two Marys Watch the Tomb" by James Tissot.

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