Sunday, 9 March 2014

Ambrosius Stub's best-known poem


The tiresome winter now is gone

                      Aria

       The tiresome winter now is gone
       The day so short, the night so long
              At gentle pace
              Do change their face,
Now must dark clouds and winds that bite – take flight;
       The fireplace stands alone, unstacked,
       And each day’s cold by shakes is racked;
       The fleece-lined coat and doublet warm
       Are hung away and held to scorn,
The muff is likewise out of kind – and mind;
       One fears no more that snow and sleet
       On going out one then will meet;
              So let us rise
              And now apprize
How sweetly nature does beguile – and smile.

       Oh see, how richly dressed the sun
       With gold-tressed hair its course does run
              Its ring of fire
              Can but inspire
All things that now accrue – anew;
       The blue sky up above so clear
       Is worth a gaze, both far and near;
       See all the birds in mighty squalls,
       That fill the air’s wide summer halls,
Their joy they constantly prolong – in song;
       They daily two by two compete
       To make their nesting-place complete,
              Look, past one streaks
              With twig in beak,
Another culls small hairs and straws – then soars.

       Oh see! the fields are looking well
       The farmer, though the whole world’s thrall,
              Now smiles to see
              His slavery
Will end in their increase – in peace,
       The lambs at random play and leap,
       And frolic mongst the meadow’s sheep,
       They kneel with joyful heart at rest
       And suckle at their mother’s breast,
By every single drop refreshed – afresh.
       The shepherd there guards flock and corn;
       A dog’s sharp bark, a call of horn,
              Are all his art,
              Though all in part;
How sweetly do the woods reply – nearby.

       Oh see, a sight most passing fair
       At wood’s green eyelids over there
              Each tall tree crest
              Is being dressed,
And spring decks out the beech with pride – as bride.
       So when the sun burns like a torch,
       And breast and lap does almost scorch,
       Behind each leaf is refuge found
       When weary heads seek sheltered ground.
Here tea refreshes, as does wine – from Rhine,
       And meanwhile one may gaze intent
       At what is nature’s parliament,
              The birds rejoice
              With well-tuned voice,
The agile beasts will nimbly dance – and prance.

       Oh see, how mirror-smooth and clear
       The lake is fashioned over here,
              It almost seems
              The sun most dreams
Of gazing at its visage fair – down there,
       The fish once caught in filth and mire
       That frost and net could not acquire,
       Now feels the urge to live and breed
       And freely sports midst rush and reed,
See here, how proudly fins now flash – and splash.
       The frog now croaks its serenade
       When drowsy day begins to fade,
              With blade of grass
              I watch time pass
And end my walk that took so long – in song.

       So do the water, sky and earth
       By my Creator gain rebirth,
              I roamed among
              World’s mighty throng,
Through all God’s providence did run ­– each one.
       Oh troubled soul! Will you just look
       And see all things are in His book,
       Whate’er befalls, I know full well
       That I among them all may dwell,
God is still mindful of my need – indeed,
       He’s sure to find the perfect time
       When heaven’s bells will peal and chime;
              It could just be
              I too may see
My winter will as spring appear – this year.

Perhaps the best-loved of all Brorson's hymns

Time to ponder, not to wander

Time to ponder, not to wander,
Not to wander, oh weakling mind!
You’ll not by prating, only by waiting,
Only by waiting, our summer find.
Time to ponder, not to wander,
Not to wander, oh weakling mind!

Hard times trudge now, scarcely budge now,
Scarcely budge now. Their nature’s so.
Each day grows longer, winter though stronger,
Winter though stronger. This well we know.
Hard times trudge now, scarcely budge now,
Scarcely budge now. Their nature’s so.

Turtle dove, come look, my loved one,
Look my loved one! Behind yon wall
You’ll like a gem see foresummer’s memory,
Foresummer’s memory, light leaf-green all.
Turtle dove, come look, my loved one,
Look my loved one! Behind yon wall.

Ah, how comely, first fruits lovely,
First fruits lovely of gentle spring!
Let sharp frosts rake me, let quivers shake me,
Let quivers shake me. How brief their sting!
Ah, how comely, first fruits lovely,
First fruits lovely of gentle spring!

Dove, what reason has this season,
Has this season – there’s no one knows!
Cold’s losing power, covered’s each flower,
Covered’s each flower the more it snows.
Dove, what reason has this season,
Has this season – there’s no one knows!

Turtle dove, come forth, my loved one,
Forth my loved one, with olive leaf!
See! with each hour rises a bower
Rises a bower that brings relief.
Turtle dove, come forth, my loved one,
Forth my loved one, with olive leaf!

Friday, 7 March 2014

A different view of life from the Dutch poet Dèr Mouw


God zou de ziel vergodlijken door smart?
Die dát zei, was een spotter of een gek:
wie wast ’t onreine blank met klev’rig pek,
en bleekt met nacht ’t diep ingezogen zwart?

Neen, smart veredelt niemand: smart verhardt.
Stinkende mestvlieg werd ik, die op drek
aas van het gore en vunzige, en bevlek
met vuile spot ’t mooiste van ’t mensenhart.

Mijn ogen hunk’ren naar de ellende heen,
en gaan gulzig te gast op elk gezicht,

waar lach van leed wreed-ingevreten ligt,
en ’k denk gretig: ‘Hij ook, niet ik alleen!’

En door mij heen vlijmt brandend deze pijn:
een drekvlieg nu – ik kon een vlinder zijn.


God’s said to make the soul divine through pain?
None but a fool or mocker might so think:
who uses night to bleach what’s black as ink,
the impure with sticky pitch makes white again?

No, pain ennobles no one: pain turns hard.
A stinking dung-fly I became that feeds
on filth and muck, that mockingly misreads,
defiles what’s finest in the human heart.

My yearning eyes hunt misery as food,
prey hungrily on every face they see

where painful laugh is grimly etched for good
and I think eagerly: ‘Not only me!’

And, flesh-fly now, pain pierces me, for I
could just as well have been a butterfly.

Thursday, 6 March 2014

Brorson on the subject of Christian love


If love shall stand the final test

If love shall stand the final test,
it must assuage your foe’s wild breast;
that you are mild when he’s irate
is Christian love in its pure state.

That lesson is as sour and tart
as to our nature is death’s dart,
seems much too heavy and too stern
for Adam’s flint-hard race to learn.

Yes, if we trust in our own might,
we’ve quickly armed ourselves to fight
and cannot stem the raging flood
of fury in the old Adam’s blood.

Oh let the heart do penance sweet,
in Jesu’s blood both merge and beat!
Then will the gentle mind of Christ
as imprint in the soul be pressed.

When we through faith’s strong fire and light
our Jesu’s heart can find aright,
that he for his own murderers prayed
when they but mockery displayed,

when in the heart’s depths we collate
our many sins and their great weight
which God forgave us at one breath
in Jesu’s suffering and death,

when this the Spirit makes quite clear,
then in the soul’s ignited here
a love that has so strong a glow
that it embraces every foe.

This love has such a blazing heat
all earthly ash it will defeat,
the soul to God will make return –
the fifth commandment then we learn.

Oh, with a fervent heart may I
sweet Jesus, love you till I die
and to your wounds draw close, for so
most gladly will I love my foe!

Monday, 3 March 2014

Mit hierte altid vanker - Brorson's wonderful 'heart in the stable/stable in the heart' hymn - now in English

MY HEART IS ALWAYS ROAMING

My heart is always roaming
Where once the Christ child lay,
And on that stable homing
My thoughts collect each day.
A refuge for soul’s fretting,
My faith’s most treasured seat,
I’ve no way of forgetting
You Christmas night so sweet.

My heart’s delight and palace
Shall you, dark stable, be,
Where each day I gain solace
From earth’s cruel mockery,
Best weigh there free from danger
The nature of my praise
When thoughts of Jesu’s manger
So set my heart ablaze.

But, ah! What shall I utter
When thinking with a sigh
That heaven’s Lord in but a
Poor manger had to lie,
That heaven’s joy and splendour,
God’s word of precious worth,
Derision now engender
Upon this wretched earth!

A pearl that’s lost with zeal is
Sought out until it’s found,
The diamond’s bright appeal is
Best seen atop a crown,
No grape is thrown down surely
’Mongst branches that are dry:
Shall I see God then poorly
In some mean stable lie?

Why not in halls appointed
With all that’s fine and grand?
(They had, if you’d but pointed,
Been decked at your command)
Why would you not be swathed in
Bright light that formed a band,
And let earth’s kings come craving
To kiss you by the hand?

Why did you keep from raising
A welkin as your tent,
And have star-torches blazing,
Oh hero, heaven-sent?
Why was not on display too
A guardian angel host,
That in silk quilts would lay you,
As did befit you most?

No! Jesu’s bed’s a stable
At this good Christmastide,
Where beggars if they’re able
From winter’s cold will hide,
And all the hay he lay in
Was meant for beasts alone,
He did not have a say in
A thing to call his own.

It is beyond all reason
That Jesus, God and man
This vale of woe as prison
Must suffer for a span,
He, who will judge for ever
The living and the dead,
Has got no place whatever
Where he can lay his head.

A nest has e’en the sparrow,
A safe place to call home,
Nor needs the fleeting swallow
For night-time shelter roam.
Nor does a lion know anguish,
Its cave has rest in store;
Shall then my Saviour languish
On some strange stable’s straw?

Ah! Come! I will throw open
My heart, my soul and mind,
A thousand sighs have spoken,
Come, Jesus, come and find!
It is no unknown chamber,
You bought it with your blood!
Here will you sweetly slumber
In my heart swathed for good.

Your resting-place so holy
Shall strewn with palm-sprigs lie,
My bridegroom, for you solely
I will both live and die.
Come! let my soul find bliss in
The fount to which it’s wed,
A thousand times be kissing
Your sweet mouth rosy red.