BRoken in pieces all asunder, Lord, hunt me not, A thing forgot, Once a poore creature, now a wonder, A wonder torturd in the space Betwixt this world and that of grace. My thoughts are all a case of knives, Wounding my heart With scatterd smart, As watring pots give flowers their lives. Nothing their furie can controll, While they do wound and prick my soul. All my attendants are at strife, Quitting their place Unto my face: Nothing performs the task of life: The elements are let loose to fight, And while I live, trie out their right. Oh help, my God! let not their plot Kill them and me, And also thee, Who art my life: dissolve the knot, As the sunne scatters by his light All the rebellions of the night. Then shall those powers, which work for grief, Enter thy pay, And day by day Labour thy praise, and my relief; With care and courage building me, Till I reach heavn, and much more, thee. |
Criticism of "Affliction (IV)": "Betwixt this world and that of grace: George Herberts potential spaces" by Julia Guernsey.
Music Interpretation: Adaptation of J. S. Bachs Fugue #8, Well Tempered Clavier
I, with the words of "Affliction (IV)." Arranged by Red Dragon.
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