Rise, heart; thy Lord is risen. Sing his praise
                                              Without delays,
Who takes thee by the hand, that thou likewise
                                              With him may'st 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 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.

                  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 endeavour ?
                  We count three hundred, but we miss :
                  There is but one, and that one ever.

by George Herbert 1593-1633
source: The Poetical Works Of George Herbert, ed. George Gilfillan. Edinburgh: James Nichol, 1853

Previous | Contents | Next