The Holy Communion

The Holy Communion
George Herbert was born in Wales, in 1593, to an affluent family. Herbert later attended Trinity College, Cambridge, where he received an education in classical languages, rhetoric, and music.

Upon graduation, he garnered the attention of King James I, who wanted Herbert to serve in Parliament. Herbert worked in Parliament from 1624–1625, but after the death of King James I, Herbert gave up his political career and for the rest of his life served as a parson in a small, rural parish in Lower Bemerton, Salisbury.

A priest of simple measure, yet profound faith and trust, Herbert expressed his devotion with poetry even as he expended his life in service. His beautiful prose rose above the politics and strife of the day beckoning all who read them to true spiritual sight.

The Holy Communion was written by Herbert in 1633 as he ministered to those gravely ill with Consumption. Herbert found the reality of Christ’s presence tangible in the sacrifice he was called to and through the Body and Blood he received. The same hands that received the reality of Jesus' presence in the Sacrament were instruments of Christ’s love to those who could receive nothing else.

Herbert died that same year of Consumption (tuberculosis) at the age of 39.

Written in old English, the poem demands attention to the written word we are not used to granting. I urge you to read slowly and stop often. Re-read and be patient. Try not to think about the process of reading, but pray as you read for the depth of these words to unite your spirit with sacramental reality of Christ’s Body and Blood in The Holy Communion.
 
Not in rich furniture, or fine aray,
                        Nor in a wedge of gold,
                        Thou, who for me wast sold,
           To me dost now thy self convey;
For so thou should’st without me still have been,
                        Leaving within me sinne:
 
But by the way of nourishment and strength
                        Thou creep’st into my breast;
                        Making thy way my rest,
           And thy small quantities my length;
Which spread their forces into every part,
                        Meeting sinnes force and art.
 
Yet can these not get over to my soul,
                        Leaping the wall that parts
                        Our souls and fleshy hearts;
           But as th’ outworks, they may controll
My rebel-flesh, and carrying thy name,
                        Affright both sinne and shame.
 
Onley thy grace, which with these elements comes,
                        Knoweth the ready way,
                        And hath the privie key,
           Op’ning the souls most subtile rooms;
While those to spirits refin’d, at doore attend
                        Dispatches from their friend.
 
Give me my captive soul, or take
                 My bodie also thither.
Another lift like this will make
                 Them both to be together.
 
Before that sinne turn’d flesh to stone,
                 And all our lump to leaven;
A fervent sigh might well have blown
                 Our innocent earth to heaven.
 
For sure when Adam did not know
                 To sinne, or sinne to smother;
He might to heav’n from Paradise go,
                 As from  one room t’another.
 
Thou hast restor’d us to  this ease
                 By this thy heav’nly bloud;
Which I can go to, when I please,
                 And leave th’earth to their food.
  
Know Him,
Fr. Bill+