The Temple: Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations/Good Friday

by George Herbert

For works with similar titles, see Good Friday.

¶ 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 woesNumber according to thy foes?Or, since one starre show'd thy first breath,Shall all thy death?

Or shall each leaf,Which falls in Autumne, score a grief?Or cannot leaves, but fruit, be signeOf the true vine?

Then let each houreOf my whole life one grief devoure;That thy distresse through all may runne,And be my sunne.

Or rather letMy sev'rall sinnes their sorrows get;That as each beast his cure doth know,Each sinne may so.

Since bloud is fittest, Lord, to writeThy sorrows in, and bloudie sight;My heart hath store; write there, where inOne 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.

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