Lenten Poetry as Anglican Heritage
- Gregory Tipton
- Mar 6, 2019
- 11 min read
Updated: Mar 4

The following poets are folks who happened to have also been Anglican Clerics, Laity, and Hymnists. Each poem is fitting for Ash Wednesday. Poetry is arguably a large portion of the literary corpus of Anglican Patrimony. Bishop Lopes has identified a "Literary Aspect of the Anglican Patrimony," but there isn't a definition or list yet. This might thus be more of an "Anglican Heritage" at this point, but many Ordinariate Catholics read such authors. Much of this sort of Anglican Lenten poetry consists of love poems to God, written as forms of contrition for one's sins, expressing desire to return to the great Lover of Souls. Such poems are ways in which a Prodigal Son returns to his Father. Enjoy.
For Ash Wednesday - a Hymn to God the Father
by John Donne
Wilt thou forgive that sin where I begun,
Which was my sin, though it were done before?
Wilt thou forgive that sin, through which I run,
And do run still, though still I do deplore?
When thou hast done, thou hast not done,
For I have more.
Wilt thou forgive that sin which I have won
Others to sin, and made my sin their door?
Wilt thou forgive that sin which I did shun
A year or two, but wallow'd in, a score?
When thou hast done, thou hast not done,
For I have more.
I have a sin of fear, that when I have spun
My last thread, I shall perish on the shore;
But swear by thyself, that at my death thy Son
Shall shine as he shines now, and heretofore;
And, having done that, thou hast done;
I fear no more.
[This poem was turned into a beautiful hymn in The English Hymnal #515
Ash Wednesday
by Christina Rossetti
I
My God, my God, have mercy on my sin, For it is great; and if I should begin To tell it all, the day would be too small To tell it in.
II
My God, Thou wilt have mercy on my sin For Thy Love’s sake: yea, if I should begin To tell This all, the day would be too small To tell it in.
To Keep a True Lent
Robert Herrick
IS this a fast, to keep
The larder lean ?
And clean
From fat of veals and sheep ?
Is it to quit the dish
Of flesh, yet still
To fill
The platter high with fish?
Is it to fast an hour,
Or ragg'd to go,
Or show
A downcast look and sour?
No; 'tis a fast to dole
Thy sheaf of wheat,
And meat,
Unto the hungry soul.
It is to fast from strife,
From old debate
And hate ;
To circumcise thy life.
To show a heart grief-rent ;
To starve thy sin,
Not bin ;
And that's to keep thy Lent.
Lent
by George Herbert
Welcome deare feast of Lent: who loves not thee, He loves not Temperance, or Authoritie, But is compos'd of passion.
The Scriptures bid us fast; the Church sayes, now: Give to thy Mother, what thou wouldst allow To ev'ry Corporation. The humble soul compos'd of love and fear Begins at home, and layes the burden there, When doctrines disagree. He sayes, in things which use hath justly got, I am a scandall to the Church, and not The Church is so to me. True Christians should be glad of an occasion To use their temperance, seeking no evasion, When good is seasonable;
Unlesse Authoritie, which should increase
The obligation in us, make it lesse, And Power it self disable. Besides the cleannesse of sweet abstinence, Quick thoughts and motions at a small expense, A face not fearing light: Whereas in fulnesse there are sluttish fumes, Sowre exhalations, and dishonest rheumes, Revenging the delight. Then those same pendant profits, which the spring And Easter intimate, enlarge the thing, And goodnesse of the deed. Neither ought other mens abuse of Lent Spoil the good use; lest by that argument We forfeit all our Creed. It 's true, we cannot reach Christ's fortieth day; Yet to go part of that religious way, Is better than to rest: We cannot reach our Savior's purity; Yet are bid, Be holy ev'n as he. In both let 's do our best. Who goeth in the way which Christ hath gone, Is much more sure to meet with him, than one That travelleth by-ways: Perhaps my God, though he be far before, May turn, and take me by the hand, and more May strengthen my decays. Yet Lord instruct us to improve our fast By starving sin and taking such repast As may our faults control:
That ev'ry man may revel at his door, Not in his parlor; banqueting the poor, And among those his soul.
At the round earth's imagined corners blow [Holy Sonnets]
by John Donne
At the round earth's imagined corners blow Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise From death, you numberless infinities Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go; All whom the flood did, and fire shall o'erthrow, All whom war, dea[r]th, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance hath slain, and you, whose eyes Shall behold God, and never taste death's woe. But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space; For, if above all these my sins abound, 'Tis late to ask abundance of Thy grace, When we are there. Here on this lowly ground, Teach me how to repent, for that's as good As if Thou hadst seal'd my pardon with Thy blood.
Ash Wednesday
John Keble
"Yes--deep within and deeper yet The rankling shaft of conscience hide, Quick let the swelling eye forget The tears that in the heart abide. Calm be the voice, the aspect bold, No shuddering pass o'er lip or brow, For why should Innocence be told The pangs that guilty spirits bow? "The loving eye that watches thine Close as the air that wraps thee round - Why in thy sorrow should it pine, Since never of thy sin it found? And wherefore should the heathen see What chains of darkness thee enslave, And mocking say, 'Lo, this is he Who owned a God that could not save'?" Thus oft the mourner's wayward heart Tempts him to hide his grief and die, Too feeble for Confession's smart, Too proud to bear a pitying eye; How sweet, in that dark hour, to fall On bosoms waiting to receive Our sighs, and gently whisper all! They love us--will not God forgive? Else let us keep our fast within, Till Heaven and we are quite alone, Then let the grief, the shame, the sin, Before the mercy-seat be thrown. Between the porch and altar weep, Unworthy of the holiest place, Yet hoping near the shrine to keep One lowly cell in sight of grace. Nor fear lest sympathy should fail - Hast thou not seen, in night hours drear, When racking thoughts the heart assail, The glimmering stars by turns appear, And from the eternal house above With silent news of mercy steal? So Angels pause on tasks of love, To look where sorrowing sinners kneel. Or if no Angel pass that way, He who in secret sees, perchance May bid His own heart-warming ray Toward thee stream with kindlier glance, As when upon His drooping head His Father's light was poured from Heaven, What time, unsheltered and unfed, Far in the wild His steps were driven. High thoughts were with Him in that hour, Untold, unspeakable on earth - And who can stay the soaring power Of spirits weaned from worldly mirth, While far beyond the sound of praise With upward eye they float serene, And learn to bear their Saviour's blaze When Judgment shall undraw the screen?
Ash Wednesday
by T. S. Eliot
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