Good Friday

Good Friday

by George Herbert

O my chief good,
How shall I measure out thy blood?
How shall I count what thee befell,
And each grief tell?

Shall I thy woes
Number according to thy foes?
Or, since one star show'd thy first breath,
Shall all thy death?

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

Then let each hour
Of my whole life one grief devour:
That thy distress through all may run,
And be my sun.

Or rather let
My several sins their sorrows get;
That as each beast his cure doth know,
Each sin may so.

Since blood is fittest, Lord to write
Thy sorrows in, and bloody fight;
My heart hath store, write there, where in
One box doth lie both ink and sin:

That when sin spies so many foes,
Thy whips, thy nails, thy wounds, thy woes
All come to lodge there, sin may say,
'No room for me', and fly away.

Sin being gone, oh fill the place,
And keep possession with thy grace;
Lest sin take courage and return,
And all the writings blot or burn.


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In this new season, I have no lofty words to share; no wisdom to impart.
My heart grieves for it's sad state: Apathy. Indecision. Restlessness. Selfishness.
Over the past 40 days I've done very little to reflect, to intercede, to cultivate.
The small sacrifice I have made seems meager and inadequate.
What can come from such an act? From sacrifice with no great follow through?
My finite mind thinks, "Very little."
But my spirit must look beyond and trust.
Trust that those prayers prayed in secret were heard.
Trust that the grace I've always experienced does not run dry.
Trust that this is the Year of Restoration.
For me, for my family, for my friends.