The Wise Men - G.K. Chesterton

For you on this Merry 10th Day of Christmas!

"Gilbert Keith Chesterton was a man of extraordinary wit, intellect, and insight. He was a prolific writer who engaged the leading intellectuals of his time in debates, always defending the cause of orthodoxy. It was his good and affable nature that made his adversaries also his friends. Chesterton was a master of conveying truth through paradox, and this poignant and pointed poem is a fine example of his rare gifts." ("Christmas Spirit" by George Grant and Greg Wilbur)

"The Wise Men" by G.K. Chesterton, 1874-1936

Step softly, under snow or rain,

To find the place where men can pray;

The way is all so very plain

That we may lose the way.

Oh, we have learnt to peer and pore

On tortured puzzles from our youth,

We know all labyrinthine lore,

We are the three wise men of yore,

And we know all things but the truth.

We have gone round and round the hill

And lost the wood among the trees,

And learnt long names for every ill,

And served the mad gods, naming still

The furies the Eumenides.

The gods of violence took the veil

Of vision and philosophy,

The Serpent that brought all men bale,

He bites his own accursed tail,

And calls himself Eternity.

Go humbly...it has hailed and snowed...

WIth voices low and lanterns lit;

So very simple is the road,

That we may stray from it.

The world grows terrible and white,

And blinding white the breaking day;

We walk bewildered in the light,

For something is too large for sight,

And something much too plain to say.

The Child that was ere worlds begun

(...We need but walk a little way,

We need but see a latch undone...)

The Child that played with moon and sun

Is playing with a little hay.

The house from which the heavens are fed,

The old strange house that is our own,

Where trick of words are never said,

And Mercy is as plain as bread,

And Honour is as hard as stone.

Go humbly, humble are the skies,

And low and large and fierce the Star;

So very near the Manger lies

That we may travel far.

Hark! Laughter like a lion wakes

To roar to the resounding plain.

And the whole heaven shouts and shakes,

For God Himself is born again,

And we are little children walking

Through the snow and rain.

My Shepherd

The God of love my shepherd is,

And he that doth me feed:

While he is mine, and I am his,

What can I want or need?

He leads me to the tender grass,

Where I both feed and rest;

Then to the streams that gently pass:

In both I have the best.

Or if I stray, he doth convert

And bring my mind in frame:

And all this not for my desert,

But for his holy name.

Yea, in death's shady black abode

Well may I walk, not fear:

For thou art with me; and thy rod

To guide, thy staff to bear.

Nay, thou dost make me sit and dine,

Ev'n in my enemies' sight:

My head with oil, my cup with wine

Runs over day and night.

Surely thy sweet and wondrous love

Shall measure all my days;

And as it never shall remove,

So neither shall my praise.

The 23rd Psalm by George Herbert

J E S U

JESU is in my heart, his sacred name

Is deeply carved there: but th' other week

A great affliction broke the little frame,

Ev'n all to pieces, which I went to seek:

And first I found the corner, where was J.

After, where E S, and next where U was graved.

When I had got these parcels, instantly

I sat me down to spell them, and perceived

That to my broken heart he was I ease you,

And to my whole is J E S U.

~ George Herbert

Notes on Poems of George Herbert

George Herbert is one of my favorite poets, and it has taken some time for me to begin to plumb a little bit of the depth of his poems. Only a little bit, I repeat! Here is a sampling of three poems with my humble notes following each. If you, while reading, see any other points and meanings I have missed, I would love to hear what these poems have to say to you. Enjoy!

THE ALTAR

A broken A L T E R , Lord, thy servant rears,

Made of a heart, and cemented with tears:

Whose parts are as thy hand did frame;

No workman's 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 S A C R I F I C E be mine,

And sanctify this A L T A R to be thine.

We can find references in this poem to Psalm 139 where we read that our frame was hidden when we were being formed in secret, but not hidden to the Master Craftsman. Herbert also refers to the Old Testament stone altars that God commanded to be made of unhewn stone.

Our hearts are like those unhewn stones that only God can shape and form so that we may be made according to His purposes and glory. God takes us, these stones of His, and builds "a spiritual house, a holy priesthood, to offer acceptable sacrifices" as 1 Peter 2:5 tells us. As stones "fitly framed together" it is our honor to offer "sacrifices of praise," and if we aren't willing to do so, God can raise up other stones to cry out praises to Him. Additionally, Herbert has constructed this poem, as a craftsman himself, to show the reader his theme of altar and sacrifice.

THE AGONY

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.

Though philosophers (and we) may study and acquire knowledge of the heavens, of men and states, and of the deep, there are two things even more immense, but nearby, in our hearts, that should be studied as well: Sin and Love. Unfortunately, we don't probe these depths. Perhaps because it is too painful.

It is sin that forces pain, death, and despair through every seen and unseen aspect of our beings. It was sin that wrung our Savior, so that His beauty and perfection were exchanged for our grotesqueness and failure. But, through that blood wrung from Him for our sakes, we have come to a cup of wine such as have never tasted - a cup given to us by Love.

THE STAR

Bright spark, shot from a brighter place,

Where beams surround my Saviour's face,

Canst thou be any where

So well as there?

Yet, if t hou wilt from thence depart,

Take a bad lodging in my heart;

For thou canst make a debtor,

And make it better.

First with thy fire-work burn to dust

Folly, and worse than folly, lust:

Then with thy light refine,

And make it shine:

So disengag'd from sin and sickness,

Touch it with thy celestial quickness,

That it may hang and move

After thy love.

Then with our trinity of light,

Motion, and heat, let's take our flight

Unto the place where thou

Before didst bow.

Get me a standing there, and place

Among the beams which crown the face

Of him, who dy'd to part

Sin and my heart:

That so among the rest I may

Glitter, and curl, and wind as they:

That winding is their fashion

Of adoration.

Sure thou wilt joy, by gaining me

To fly home like a laden bee

Unto that hive of beams

And garland-streams.

The revelation of Christ, the Word, shines down upon the darkness of our hearts to transform the Debtor, the sinner, into something better, something that better reflects the bright and shining image of God. That light which illuminates from Christ burns away our dross and refines us, causing us to shine as the light, the star, shines; and as the weight of dross burns away, the light enables us to follow it better than ever before, even eventually to the point that the Trinity of Light causes us to upward fly as sparks back to the very source of Light and Glory - the very face of Jesus, who is the Light of the World which shines in the darkness. (John 1: 4-5)

As we take our place before the Light among other debtors transformed, we will with joy adore Him; and He with joy receives us into His Glory.

"And we all, with unveiled face, beholding the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another. For this comes from the Lord who is the Spirit." (2 Cor.3:18) Like the fireworks that we read about and literally see in the shape of this poem, we show forth the theme of ascending from glory to glory even unto the Father, Son, and Spirit - the Trinity of Light.

Whitsunday

The Feast of Whitsunday, or Pentecost, is celebrated seven weeks after Easter in the Christian liturgical year.  The day is of great significance to Christians as it is the day that the promised Comforter, the Holy Spirit was sent to Jesus' disciples, the newborn nucleus of the Church.  

Throughout Jesus' discourse to his disciples in John 14 - 17, as they celebrated the Passover just prior to His death and resurrection, He tells how the Holy Spirit, the Helper, the Comforter would be sent to them to dwell with them, teach them, bear witness to the Truth, and sanctify them to God.  Our Father did not make children of us just to leave us orphans,  He has sent us His own Spirit!  George Herbert writes beautifully of this glorious day in his poem entitled, what else? Whitsunday.

Listen sweet Dove unto my song,

     And spread thy golden wings in me;

     Hatching my tender heart so long,

Till it get wind, and fly away with thee.

     Where is that fire which once descended

     On thy Apostles?  thou didst then

     Keep open house, richly attended,

Feasting all comers by twelve chosen men.

     Such glorious gifts thou didst bestow

     That th' earth did like a heav'n appear;

     The stars were coming down to know

If they might mend their wages, and serve here.

     The sun which once did shine alone,

     Hung down his head, and wisht for night,

     When he beheld twelve suns for one

Going about the world, and giving light.

     But since those pipes of gold, which brought

     That cordial water to our ground,

     Were cut and martyr'd by the fault

Of those, who did themselves through their side

        wound,

     Thou shutt'st the door, and keep'st within;

     Scarce a good joy creeps through the chink:

     And if the braves of conqu'ring sin

Did not excite thee, we should wholly sink.

     Lord, though we change, thou art the same;

     The same sweet God of love and light:

     Restore this day, for thy great name,

Unto his ancient and miraculous right.

Tour of Roses

The lily has a smooth stalk,

Will never hurt your hand;

"But the rose upon her brier

Is lady of the land.

There's sweetness in an apple tree,

And profit in the corn;

But lady of all beauty Is a rose upon a thorn.

When with moss and honey

She tips her bending brier,

And half unfolds her glowing heart,

She sets the world on fire."     The Rose - by Christina Rossetti

Let's continue our walk around the garden and visit other roses that have bloomed.  First today is Crimson Glory, royal among roses.  It is huge - as large as a small grapefruit, with petals of deepest blood red velvet and a fragrance so rich it's baroque.  This is it's first year in the garden, so I am looking forward to it's more mature years as it begins to cover the archway.  On the opposite side of the arch are two young clematis (clematii?) that are burgundy and purple.  The colors on this archway in years to come will be spectacular!

In contrast to Crimson Glory, and only a few feet away, is Bloomfield Dainty.  It truly is a dainty rose, looking much like it was composed from the finest tissue paper.  It's fragrance is appropriately light - sweet with a touch of spice.                                           Here's a close-up of Bloomfield Dainty."You love the roses - so do I.  I wish

The sky would rain down roses, as they rain

From off the shaken bush.  Why will it not?

Then all the valley would be pink and white

And soft to tread on.  They would fall as light

As feathers, smelling sweet: and it would be

Like sleeping and yet waking, all at once."     Roses - George Elliot

The next little rose is the well-named Sweet Pea.  If it were not already named so, you would naturally called it by that name!  The blossoms are small, but profuse, with a fragrance that distills the air.  You only have to be in the vicinity, or down-wind, of Sweet Pea to enjoy it's fragrance.  Here you see it loaded down so heavily with it's first flush of bloom that it can no longer maintain it's compact form.

This is Sweet Pea close up.  Doesn't it have just the sunniest center?In this photo Sweet Pea is in the background, and we see Republic of Texas up close.  Every native Texan must have a yellow rose in the garden, and this one is an excellent choice.  It blooms profusely, is easy to care for, and is heavily scented.  Between Republic and Sweet Pea, the whole front yard smelled of roses.  "As a flower in the garden

Bending toward the sun,

Unfolds it's tiny petals

One, by one, by one...

So faith expands it's beauty

Until at last it grows

Into life's lasting flower...

The heart's fair perfect rose."   - Rebecca Helmann

This beauty, with all it's hundred petals, is Pioneer Spirit. When it's fully open, it reminds you of a fluffy, pink powder puff.  In fact, it has that light rosy powder scent.  When this rose burst all it's blooms, the trellis looked like a little girl's birthday party.  It was so cheerful!And finally, we have New Dawn.  This is a vigorous climber, reaching 15-20 feet, so we have planted it on the old basketball goal at the back corner of the little barn, behind the dog runs.  Why back there, you ask, where it's not easily seen?  But, I say, why not?  When I drive the truck and trailer down the back lane, or am caring for dogs in the run, there is something beautiful to enjoy.That completes our tour of the roses.  At least for this year!  Next year I should have a new one to show you, Lavender Lassie, which was just planted in front of the porch.  It, too, is a vigorous climber and in years to come should grace the column and top-edge of the front porch.  I can't wait!  Till then, here's one more poem, and thank you for letting me show you the roses.

"It is only a tiny

rosebud,

A flower of God's design,

But I cannot unfold the petals

With these clumsy hands of mine.

 - The secret of unfolding flowers

Is not known to such as I,

The flower God opens so sweetly,

In my hands would fade and die.

- I cannot unfold a rosebud,

This flower of God's design,

Then how can I have wisdom

To unfold this life of min?

- So I'll trust Him for His leading

Each moment of every day

And I"ll look to Him for His

Guidance

Each step of the pilgrim way.

- For the pathway that lies before 

me

My heavenly Father knows

I'll trust Him to unfold the 

moments

Just as He unfolds the rose."    - Anonymous

The Call of Deep Unto Deep

In a recent blog, I wrote about the beautiful passage found in Psalm 42 of "deep calls to deep".  Two comments were posted there that are well worth your time to go back and read; one a devotional by Charles Spurgeon, and the other a poem by John Wright Follette.  The poem is absolutely beautiful and speaks so well of the mysteries of the passage "deep calls unto deep."  I'd like to reprint it here for you, and I hope it stirs the depths of your soul, as deep calls to deep.

The Call of Deep Unto Deep

by John Wright Follette

Down in the depth of my nature

Where the issues of life are born,

From that unknown mystical realm,

Surviving through ages of storm,

A call is forever rising -

But its language I cannot speak.

It was born ere I had being,

'Tis the call of deep unto deep.

Our mother tongue here is awkward,

For no words can fully express

The needs in the depths of nature,

In bondage to sin and distress.

Our hearts in their depths surely ache;

They hunger; they call; and they seek -

Then silently wait an answer

To the call of deep unto deep.

Down deep in the heart of our God,

In mystical regions sublime,

In the Godhead's holy council

Long before our world or our time,

An answer was fully prepared

Every pain, every ache to meet,

In Christ, God's only begotten,

Is answer to deep unto deep.

The Answer indeed was the Word,

The Word when expressed was the Son.

Oh language of God how profound!

In answer what more could be done?

The heart of our God is hungry,

His portion, His people to seek.

"I thirst," was cried by the Answer -

'Tis the call of deep unto deep.

Here We Go a'Maying

On May Morning

By John Milton

Now the bright morning Star, Day's harbinger,

Comes dancing from the East, and lead with her

The Flowery May, who from her green lap throws

The yellow Cowslip, and the pale Primrose.Hail bounteous May that dost inspire

Mirth and youth, and warm desire,Woods and Groves, are of thy dressing,

Hill and Dale, doth boast thy blessing.Thus we salute thee with our early Song,

And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

God's Servant Made

"Death, thou wast once an uncouth hideous thing,

                    Nothing but bones,

       The sad effect of sadder groans:

Thy mouth was open, but thou couldst not sing.

For we consider'd thee as at some six

                    Or ten years hence,

       After the loss of life and sense,

Flesh being turn'd to dust, and bones to sticks.

We lookt on this side of thee, shooting short,

                    Where we did find

       The shells of fledge souls left behind,

Dry dust, which sheds no tears, but may extort.

But since our Saviour's death did put some blood

                    Into thy face,

       Thou art grown fair and full of grace,

Much in request, much sought for, as a good.

For we do now behold thee gay and glad,

                    As at dooms-day,

       When souls shall wear their new array,

And all thy bones with beauty shall be clad.

Therefore we can go die as sleep, and trust

                    Half that we have

       Unto an honest faithful grave;

Making our pillows either down, or dust.

Death by George Herbert

Death by George Frederick Watts

Highmeadow Blossoms and Easter Wings

In this posting, let's take a little tour of other blossoming flowers around the farm.  "Hope springs eternal" seems to be more believable in springtime itself, and "Easter Wings" tells us how.

This is the little blossoming branch of a young Peach tree that I found growing in the fence line last spring.  It's a very old wire fence, and the tree's roots are so enmeshed in the fence that I'll just try and train it up in it's place, rather than attempt uprooting it and damaging the tree.  I wonder how it came to be there?  We'll see what happens!

These are lovely, little Virginia Bluebells.  I bought them at GroWild Nursery in Fairview last spring, and when they disappeared during the summer, I thought they'd died.  But, surprise!  They reappeared better than ever!  I've now learned that they go dormant in summertime.  What a delightful little plant to look forward to each spring.

                                   Clouds and clouds of Dogwood blossoms.

"... th'violet embroidered vale ..."   ~ John Milton.    What a beautiful way to describe the hundreds upon hundred of wild Violets that lace there way through the grass.

                                              Wild Violet close-up.

Plain ol' Red Clover.  It's really a pretty little plant, I think, but boy, does it make the horses drooley!

Easter Wings 2 by George Herbert

My   tender   age   in    sorrow   did   begin:

       And still with sickness and shame

               Thou didst  so punish sin,

                       That    I   became

                             Most thin.

                             With thee

                        Let me  combine

                And feel this day thy victory:

      For, if   I   imp   my   wing   on   thine,

Affliction   shall   advance   the    flight   in  me.

Pear Blossom Study and George Herbert

Yes, I like George Herbert!  He's writes such amazingly beautiful poetry, and his poem entitled "Easter" is posted below.

Until just two days ago, a lone pear tree comprises our orchard.  There's now a young peach tree to accompany the pear, but until age and tornadoes took their toll, our orchard used to consist of an apple, peach, and plum tree.  So, slowly we rebuild. 

Last season, our pear tree bore prodigiously from August until a November freeze.  We ate pears, gave away pears, stored up pears, and gave the horses all the pears they could hope for.  Perhaps this abundance was recompense for the previous year when not one pear was borne due to a late spring killing frost.  This year, if the number of blossoms is any indicator, the horses will be feasting on pears once more.

                                            Pear blossoms on blue.

                                                              Pear blossom clouds.

                                                                                Bee's-eye view.

                                                Pear blossom swag.

Easter by George Herbert

Rise heart; thy Lord is risen.  Sing his praise

          Without delays.

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 cross 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 music is but three parts vied

          And multiplied,

O let thy blessed Spirit bear a part,

And make up our defects with his sweet art.

I got me flowers to straw thy way;

I got me boughs off many a tree:

But thou wast up by break of day,

And brough'st thy sweets along with thee.

The sun arising in the East,

Though he give light, and th'East perfume;

If they should offer to contest

With thy arising, they presume.

Can there be any day but this,

Though many suns to shine endeavor?

We count three hundred, but we miss:

There is but one, and that one ever.

Crab Apple Study with George Herbert

The Weeping Fruitless Crab Apple tree bears the sweetest buds, perhaps even more beautiful than the flower.  Because of circumstances and storms, I didn't photograph the flowers; but I hope you enjoy seeing the dainty buds.

Here you can see the tightness of the bud and the serrated leaf.

                                                      In the evening light.

                                               Peek-a-boo bud!

Sepulchre  by George Herbert

O blessed body!  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 toys dwell there, yet out of door

          They leave thee.

But that which shows them large, shows them unfit.

What ever sin did this pure rock commit,

Which holds thee now?  Who hath indicted it

          Of murder?

Where our hard hearts have took up stones to brain thee,

And missing this, most falsely did arraign thee;

Only 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.

Daffodil Study with Milton and Herbert

                               Daffodils with evening rays and shadows.

                                                            Flora with Fauna.

                                Down and round the vine-wrapt trunk.

                                    Daffodils in evening backlight.

                Golden western rays take their form in daffodils.

From Paradise Lost by John Milton:

   "So saying, her rash hand in evil hour

Forth reaching to the fruit, she plucked, she ate;

Earth felt the wound, and nature from her seat,

Sighing through all her works, gave signs of woe

That all was lost.  Back to the thicket slunk

The guilty serpent, and well might, for Even

Intent now only on her taste, naught else

Regarded; such delight till then, as seemed,

In fruit she never tasted, whether true,

Or fancied so through expectation high

Of knowledge; nor was godhead from her thought.

Greedily she engorged without restraint,

And knew not eating death:"

   "Where art thou, Adam wont with joy to meet

My coming, seen far off?  I miss thee here,

Not pleased, thus entertained with solitude,

Where obvious duty erewhile appeared unsought.

Or come I less conspicuous, or what change

Absents thee, or what chance detains?  Come forth!"

   "So judged he Man, both Judge and Saviour sent,

And th'instant stroke of death,denounced that day,

Removed far off;"

The Agony by George Herbert

   Philosophers have measur'd mountains,

Fathom'd the depth 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 bloddy be.

Sin is that press and vice, which forceth pain

To hunt his cruel food through ev'ry vein.

   WHo know 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.