web analytics
Poetry

Sunday Sonnet.

If you want the church to grow in your time you do not sit and wait for it to happen. You get your hands dirty, and Hopkins was made of stern enough stuff to do this. He had been sent where he did not want to go.

And let his struggle, his will, go. For a greater good. He was of his time, and from that time we have fallen.

‘I wake and feel’

I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day.
What hours, O what black hours we have spent
This night! what sights you, heart, saw; ways you went!
And more must, in yet longer light’s delay.

With witness I speak this. But where I say
Hours I mean years, mean life. And my lament
Is cries countless, cries like dead letters sent
To dearest him that lives alas! away.

I am gall, I am heartburn. God’s most deep decree
Bitter would have me taste: my taste was me;
Bones built in me, flesh filled, blood grimmed the curse.

Selfyeast of spirit a dull dough sours. I see
The lost are like this, and their scourge to be
As I am mine, their sweating selves; but worse.

Gerard Manley Hopkins

%d bloggers like this: