For some years I’ve relied on religious poetry to provide a balance to my overly-analytical approach to faith (a natural liability of an Enneagram 5). Advent and Lent especially are enriching times as I’ve revisited poets and pieces that have become favorites. Sometimes a poem inspires an image, which I try to capture in a quick sketch. Some of you on the poetry list are familiar with some of those.
Abraham Cowley’s “Christ’s Passion” is one I revisit each Lent. This time around it inspired this sketch. The best way to read the poem is aloud, to listen to the poetry of the language and feel the intonation on the tongue.
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Christ’s Passion
Enough, my Muse, of Earthly things,
And inspirations but of wind,
Take up thy Lute, and to it bind
Loud and everlasting strings;
And on’em play, and to’em sing,
The happy mournful stories,
The Lamentable glories,
Of the great Crucified King.
Mountainous heap of wonders! which do’st rise
Till Earth thou joynest with the Skies!
Too large at bottom, and at top too high,
To be half seen by mortal eye.
How shall I grasp this boundless thing?
What shall I play? what shall I sing?
I’ll sing the Mighty riddle of mysterious love,
Which neither wretched men below, nor blessed Spirits above
With all their Comments can explain;
How all the whole Worlds Life to die did not disdain.
I’ll sing the Searchless depths of the Compassion Divine,
The depths unfathom’d yet
By reasons Plummet, and the line of Wit,
Too light the Plummet, and too short the line,
How the Eternal Father did bestow
His own Eternal Son as ransom for his Foe,
I’ll sing aloud, that all the World may hear,
The Triumph of the buried Conquerer.
How Hell was by its Pris’ner Captive led,
And the great slayer Death slain by the Dead.
Me thinks I hear of murthered men the voice,
Mixt with the Murderers confused noise,
Sound from the top of Calvarie;
My greedy eyes fly up the Hill, and see
Who ’tis hangs there the midmost of the three;
Oh how unlike the others he!
Look how he bends his gentle head with blessings from the Tree!
His gracious Hands ne’r stretcht but to do good,
Are nail’d to the infamous wood:
And sinful Man do’s fondly bind
The Arms, which he extends t’embrace all humane kind.
Unhappy Man, canst thou stand by, and see
All this as patient, as he?
Since he thy Sins do’s bear,
Make thou his sufferings thine own,
And weep, and sigh, and groan,
And beat thy Breast, and tear,
Thy Garments, and thy Hair,
And let thy grief, and let thy love [1668: gief
Through all thy bleeding bowels move.
Do’st thou not see thy Prince in purple clad all o’re,
Not purple brought from the Sidonian shore,
But made at home with richer gore?
Dost thou not see the Roses, which adorn
The thorny Garland, by him worn?
Dost thou not see the livid traces
Of the sharp scourges rude embraces?
If yet thou feelest not the smart
Of Thorns and Scourges in thy heart,
If that be yet not crucifi’d,
Look on his Hands, look on his Feet, look on his Side.
Open, Oh! open wide the Fountains of thine eyes,
And let ’em call
Their stock of moisture forth, where e’re it lies,
For this will ask it all.
‘Twould all (alas) too little be,
Though thy salt tears came from a Sea:
Canst thou deny him this, when he
Has open’d all his vital Springs for thee?
Take heed; for by his sides misterious flood
May well be understood,
That he will still require some waters to his blood.
–Abraham Cowley
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Make a good Lent.
