Faith, Spirituality and Religion

Where the bright seraphim in burning row Their loud uplifted angel trumpets blow.

Yet some there be that by due steps aspire To lay their just hands on that golden key That opes the palace of Eternity.

And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light. There let the pealing organ blow, To the full-voiced choir below, In service high, and anthems clear As may, with sweetness, through mine ear Dissolve me into ecstasies, And bring all Heaven before mine eyes.

As ever in my great Taskmaster’s eye.

Peor and Baalim Forsake their temples dim.

This is the month, and this the happy morn, Wherein the Son of Heav’n’s eternal King, Of wedded maid and virgin mother born, Our great redemption from above did bring; For so the holy sages once did sing, That He our deadly forfeit should release, And with His Father work us a perpetual peace.

Religion stands on tiptoe in our land, Ready to pass to the American strand.

Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back, Guilty of dust and sin. But quick-ey’d Love, observing me grow slack From my first entrance in, Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning, If I lack’d anything.

A servant with this clause Makes drudgery divine: Who sweeps a room, as for thy laws, Makes that and th’ action fine.

Teach me, my God and King, In all things thee to see And what I do in any thing, To do it as for thee.

He would adore my gifts instead of me, And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature: So both should losers be.

Let him be rich and weary, that at least, If goodness lead him not, yet weariness May toss him to my breast.

Call in thy death’s head there: tie up thy fears.

But as I rav’d and grew more fierce and wild At every word, Methought I heard one calling, Child! And I replied, My Lord.

God’s works are wide, and let in future times; His ancient justice overflows our crimes.

Who goes to bed and does not pray, Maketh two nights to every day.

I got me flowers to strew Thy way, I got me boughs off many a tree: But Thou wast up by break of day, And brought’st Thy sweets along with Thee.

For thirty pence he did my death devise, Who at three hundred did the ointment prize.

Man is God’s image; but a poor man is Christ’s stamp to boot: both images regard.

Heaven-gates are not so highly arch’d As princes’ palaces; they that enter there Must go upon their knees.

Wilt thou forgive that sin where I begun, Which was my sin, though it were done before? Wilt thou forgive that sin; through which I run, And do run still: though still I do deplore? When thou hast done, thou hast not done, For, I have more.

Since I am coming to that holy room, Where, with thy choir of saints forevermore, I shall be made thy music; as I come I tune the instrument here at the door, And what I must do then, think here before.

Show me, dear Christ, Thy spouse, so bright and clear.

Batter my heart, three-person’d God; for you As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend.