>Good Friday

>

                 O My chief good,
How shall I measure out thy bloud?
How shall I count what thee befell,    
              And each grief tell?           
              Shall I thy woes 
Number according to thy foes?
Or, since one starre show’d thy first breath,     
             Shall all thy death?          
             Or shall each leaf, 
Which falls in Autumn, score a grief? 
Or can not leaves, but fruit, be signe       
           Of the true vine?       
            Then let each houre 
Of my whole life one grief devoure; 
That thy distresse through all may runne,      
            And be my sunne.             
            Or rather let
 My severall sinnes their sorrows get; 
That as each beast his cure doth know,             
            Each sinne may so.  
Since bloud is fittest, Lord, to write 
Thy sorrows in, and bloudie fight; 
My heart hath store, write there, where in  
One box doth lie both ink and sinne: 

 That when sinne spies so many foes, 
Thy whips, thy nails, thy wounds, thy woes, 
All come to lodge there, sinne may say,
 No room for me, and flie away.  

Sinne being gone, oh fill the place, 
And keep possession with thy grace; 
Lest sinne take courage and return, 

And all the writings blot or burn.
- George Herbert (1633)

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About mjbutterworth

I love drinking/making coffee, making/listening to music, riding bicycles, and reading about theology. I also like blogs that talk about those things. Most of all, I love Jesus because his gospel has changed my life.
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