To the Holy Bible

O book! Life’s guide! How shall we part,
And thou so long seiz'd of my heart!
Take this last kiss, and let me weep
True thanks to thee, before I sleep.
Thou wert the first put in my hand,
When yet I could not understand,
And daily didst my young eyes lead
To letters, till I learnt to read.
But as rash youths, when once grown strong
Fly from their Nurses to the throng,
Where they new Consorts choose, & stick
To those, till either hurt or sick:
So with that first light gain'd from thee
Ran I in chase of vanity,
Cried dross for gold, and never thought
My first cheap Book had all I sought.
Long reign'd this vogue; and thou cast by
With meek, dumb looks didst woo mine eye,
And oft left open would'st convey
A sudden and most searching ray
Into my soul, with whose quick touch
Refining still, I strugled much.
By this milde art of love at length
Thou overcam'st my sinful strength,
And having brought me home, didst there
Shew me that pearl I sought elsewhere.
Gladness, and peace, and hope, and love,
The secret favors of the Dove,
Her quickning kindness, smiles and kisses,
Exalted pleasures, crowning blisses,
Fruition, union, glory, life
Thou didst lead to, and still all strife.
Living, thou wert my souls sure ease,
And dying mak'st me go in peace:
Thy next Effects no tongue can tell;
Farewel O book of God! farewel!

— Henry Vaughan (1621-1695), Welsh metaphysical poet, devotional writer, author, physician, and royalist during the Commonwealth period.

The Night

                           John 3.2

      Through that pure virgin shrine,
That sacred veil drawn o’er Thy glorious noon,
That men might look and live, as glowworms shine,
         And face the moon,
   Wise Nicodemus saw such light
   As made him know his God by night.

      Most blest believer he!
Who in that land of darkness and blind eyes
Thy long-expected healing wings could see,
         When Thou didst rise!
   And, what can never more be done,
   Did at midnight speak with the Sun!

      O who will tell me where
He found Thee at that dead and silent hour?
What hallowed solitary ground did bear
         So rare a flower,
   Within whose sacred leaves did lie
   The fulness of the Deity?

      No mercy-seat of gold,
No dead and dusty cherub, nor carved stone,
But His own living works did my Lord hold
         And lodge alone;
   Where trees and herbs did watch and peep
   And wonder, while the Jews did sleep.

      Dear night! this world’s defeat;
The stop to busy fools; care’s check and curb;
The day of spirits; my soul’s calm retreat
         Which none disturb!
   Christ’s progress, and His prayer time;
   The hours to which high heaven doth chime;

      God’s silent, searching flight;
When my Lord’s head is filled with dew, and all
His locks are wet with the clear drops of night;
         His still, soft call;
   His knocking time; the soul’s dumb watch,
   When spirits their fair kindred catch.

      Were all my loud, evil days
Calm and unhaunted as is thy dark tent,
Whose peace but by some angel’s wing or voice
         Is seldom rent,
   Then I in heaven all the long year
   Would keep, and never wander here.

      But living where the sun
Doth all things wake, and where all mix and tire
Themselves and others, I consent and run
         To every mire,
   And by this world’s ill-guiding light,
   Err more than I can do by night.

      There is in God, some say,
A deep but dazzling darkness, as men here
Say it is late and dusky, because they
         See not all clear.
   O for that night! where I in Him
   Might live invisible and dim!

-- Henry Vaughan (1621-1695) Welsh poet and devout Anglican through the English Civil War and Commonwealth

Image: Henry Ossawa Tanner, Study of Nicodemus

Scripture Link: John 3:1-17, 2 Lent A

The World

I saw Eternity the other night,
Like a great ring of pure and endless light,
All calm, as it was bright;
And round beneath it, Time in hours, days, years,
Driv’n by the spheres
Like a vast shadow mov’d; in which the world
And all her train were hurl’d.
The doting lover in his quaintest strain
Did there complain;
Near him, his lute, his fancy, and his flights,
Wit’s sour delights,
With gloves, and knots, the silly snares of pleasure,
Yet his dear treasure
All scatter’d lay, while he his eyes did pour
Upon a flow’r.

The darksome statesman hung with weights and woe,
Like a thick midnight-fog mov’d there so slow,
He did not stay, nor go;
Condemning thoughts (like sad eclipses) scowl
Upon his soul,
And clouds of crying witnesses without
Pursued him with one shout.
Yet digg’d the mole, and lest his ways be found,
Work’d under ground,
Where he did clutch his prey; but one did see
That policy;
Churches and altars fed him; perjuries
Were gnats and flies;
It rain’d about him blood and tears, but he
Drank them as free.

The fearful miser on a heap of rust
Sate pining all his life there, did scarce trust
His own hands with the dust,
Yet would not place one piece above, but lives
In fear of thieves;
Thousands there were as frantic as himself,
And hugg’d each one his pelf;
The downright epicure plac’d heav’n in sense,
And scorn’d pretence,
While others, slipp’d into a wide excess,
Said little less;
The weaker sort slight, trivial wares enslave,
Who think them brave;
And poor despised Truth sate counting by
Their victory.

Yet some, who all this while did weep and sing,
And sing, and weep, soar’d up into the ring;
But most would use no wing.
O fools (said I) thus to prefer dark night
Before true light,
To live in grots and caves, and hate the day
Because it shews the way,
The way, which from this dead and dark abode
Leads up to God,
A way where you might tread the sun, and be
More bright than he.
But as I did their madness so discuss
One whisper’d thus,
“This ring the Bridegroom did for none provide,
But for his bride.”

--Henry Vaughan (1621-1695), Welsh metaphysical poet and physician

Scriptural reference: Luke 12:32-40, Proper 14C

The Night

John 3.2 

        Through that pure virgin shrine, 
That sacred veil drawn o’er Thy glorious noon,
That men might look and live, as glowworms shine, 
             And face the moon, 
    Wise Nicodemus saw such light 
    As made him know his God by night.

        Most blest believer he!
Who in that land of darkness and blind eyes
Thy long-expected healing wings could see,
            When Thou didst rise!
    And, what can never more be done,
    Did at midnight speak with the Sun!

        O who will tell me where 
He found Thee at that dead and silent hour?
What hallowed solitary ground did bear
            So rare a flower,
    Within whose sacred leaves did lie
    The fulness of the Deity?

        No mercy-seat of gold,
No dead and dusty cherub, nor carved stone,
But His own living works did my Lord hold
            And lodge alone;
    Where trees and herbs did watch and peep
    And wonder, while the Jews did sleep.

        Dear night! this world’s defeat;
The stop to busy fools; care’s check and curb;
The day of spirits; my soul’s calm retreat
            Which none disturb!
    Christ’s progress, and His prayer time;
    The hours to which high heaven doth chime;

        God’s silent, searching flight;
When my Lord’s head is filled with dew, and all 
His locks are wet with the clear drops of night;
            His still, soft call;
    His knocking time; the soul’s dumb watch,
    When spirits their fair kindred catch.

        Were all my loud, evil days
Calm and unhaunted as is thy dark tent,
Whose peace but by some angel’s wing or voice
            Is seldom rent,
    Then I in heaven all the long year
    Would keep, and never wander here.

        But living where the sun
Doth all things wake, and where all mix and tire
Themselves and others, I consent and run
            To every mire,
    And by this world’s ill-guiding light,
    Err more than I can do by night. 

        There is in God, some say,
A deep but dazzling darkness, as men here
Say it is late and dusky, because they
            See not all clear.
    O for that night! where I in Him
    Might live invisible and dim!

--Henry Vaughan (1621-1695), Welsh poet, physician, and translator

The Morning-Watch

O joys! infinite sweetness! with what flow’rs 
And shoots of glory my soul breaks and buds! 
All the long hours 
Of night, and rest, 
Through the still shrouds 
Of sleep, and clouds,
This dew fell on my breast;
Oh, how it bloods
And spirits all my earth! Hark! In what rings 
And hymning circulations the quick world 
Awakes and sings; 
The rising winds
And falling springs,
Birds, beasts, all things
Adore him in their kinds. 
Thus all is hurl’d 
In sacred hymns and order, the great chime
And symphony of nature. Prayer is 
The world in tune, 
A spirit voice,
And vocal joys
Whose echo is heav’n’s bliss. 
O let me climb
When I lie down!The pious soul by night
Is like a clouded star whose beams, though said 
To shed their light
Under some cloud,
Yet are above,
And shine and move
Beyond that misty shroud.
So in my bed,
That curtain’d grave, though sleep, like ashes, hide
My lamp and life, both shall in thee abide.

--Henry Vaughan (1621-1695) Welsh poet and inspiration for the Oxford Movement

Christ's Nativity

Awake, glad heart! get up and sing!
It is the birth-day of thy King.
Awake! awake!
The Sun doth shake
Light from his locks, and all the way
Breathing perfumes, doth spice the day.

Awake, awake! hark how th’ wood rings;
Winds whisper, and the busy springs
A concert make;
Awake! awake!
Man is their high-priest, and should rise
To offer up the sacrifice.

I would I were some bird, or star,
Flutt’ring in woods, or lifted far
Above this inn
And road of sin!
Then either star or bird should be
Shining or singing still to thee.

 would I had in my best part
Fit rooms for thee!
or that my heart
Were so clean as Thy manger was!
But I am all filth, and obscene;
Yet, if thou wilt, thou canst make clean.

Sweet Jesu! will then. Let no more
This leper haunt and soil thy door!
Cure him, ease him,
O release him!
And let once more, by mystic birth,
The Lord of life be born in earth.

--Henry Vaughan, Silex Scintillans, 1655