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Before leaving the Puritans, we should get at least one poem by the other big name of the era, Edward Taylor. We will use the one on the Lord’s Supper. This is the Christian custom that a lot of non-Christians find to be especially off-putting, being rather suggestive of cannibalism as well as cultic and just plain weird.
It is based on the night before Christ was betrayed and captured by the Jewish and Roman authorities, to be crucified ultimately. On that night, as they partook of a festive meal, Christ instructed his disciples that they should eat the bread and understand it to be His flesh, and to drink the wine and understand it to be his blood, and this should become their ritual practice. In doing this they proclaim themselves to be of the body of Christ. Or at least this is my loose rendition. I was never a Catholic, and so I probably do not have it down very well.
Taylor goes further and discusses how man first took holy food for the soul more naturally before the fall from Paradise, and how man was deprived since then of holy food for his soul. The poem will also be easier to understand if you know that he calls the soul a bird of paradise that has been placed in a cage, the body. It was only when God sent Jesus down that this bird of paradise was able to eat its special holy food again. If you can get around the oddness of the concept, it is actually a pretty idea.
_ _ _
I kenning through Astronomy Divine
The world’s bright battlement, wherein I spy
A Golden Path my Pencil cannot line,
From that bright Throne unto my Threshold lie.
And while my puzzled thoughts about it pore
I find the Bread of Life in't at my door.
When that this Bird of Paradise put in
This Wicker Cage (my Corpse) to tweedle praise
Had pecked the Fruit forbad: and so did fling
Away its Food; and lost its golden days;
It fell into Celestial Famine sore:
And never could attain a morsel more.
Alas! alas! Poor Bird, what wilt thou do?
The Creatures’ field no food for Souls e're gave.
And if thou knock at Angels’ doors they show
An Empty Barrel: they no soul bread have.
Alas! Poor Bird, the World’s White Loaf is done
And cannot yield thee here the smallest Crumb.
In this sad state, God’s Tender Bowels run
Out streams of Grace: And he to end all strife
The Purest Wheat in Heaven, his dear-dear Son
Grinds, and kneads up into this Bread of Life.
Which Bread of Life from Heaven down came and stands
Dished on thy Table up by Angels’ Hands.
Did God mould up this Bread in Heaven, and bake,
Which from his Table came, and to thine goeth?
Doth he bespeak thee thus, This Soul Bread take.
Come Eat thy fill of this thy God’s White Loaf?
It’s Food too fine for Angels, yet come, take
And Eat thy fill. Its Heaven’s Sugar Cake.
What Grace is this knead in this Loaf? This thing
Souls are but petty things it to admire.
Ye Angels, help: This fill would to the brim
Heav'ns whelm'd-down Chrystal meal Bowl, yea and higher.
This Bread of Life dropped in my mouth, doth cry.
Eat, Eat me, Soul, and thou shalt never die.
-- Edward Taylor, “Meditation 8”
It is based on the night before Christ was betrayed and captured by the Jewish and Roman authorities, to be crucified ultimately. On that night, as they partook of a festive meal, Christ instructed his disciples that they should eat the bread and understand it to be His flesh, and to drink the wine and understand it to be his blood, and this should become their ritual practice. In doing this they proclaim themselves to be of the body of Christ. Or at least this is my loose rendition. I was never a Catholic, and so I probably do not have it down very well.
Taylor goes further and discusses how man first took holy food for the soul more naturally before the fall from Paradise, and how man was deprived since then of holy food for his soul. The poem will also be easier to understand if you know that he calls the soul a bird of paradise that has been placed in a cage, the body. It was only when God sent Jesus down that this bird of paradise was able to eat its special holy food again. If you can get around the oddness of the concept, it is actually a pretty idea.
_ _ _
I kenning through Astronomy Divine
The world’s bright battlement, wherein I spy
A Golden Path my Pencil cannot line,
From that bright Throne unto my Threshold lie.
And while my puzzled thoughts about it pore
I find the Bread of Life in't at my door.
When that this Bird of Paradise put in
This Wicker Cage (my Corpse) to tweedle praise
Had pecked the Fruit forbad: and so did fling
Away its Food; and lost its golden days;
It fell into Celestial Famine sore:
And never could attain a morsel more.
Alas! alas! Poor Bird, what wilt thou do?
The Creatures’ field no food for Souls e're gave.
And if thou knock at Angels’ doors they show
An Empty Barrel: they no soul bread have.
Alas! Poor Bird, the World’s White Loaf is done
And cannot yield thee here the smallest Crumb.
In this sad state, God’s Tender Bowels run
Out streams of Grace: And he to end all strife
The Purest Wheat in Heaven, his dear-dear Son
Grinds, and kneads up into this Bread of Life.
Which Bread of Life from Heaven down came and stands
Dished on thy Table up by Angels’ Hands.
Did God mould up this Bread in Heaven, and bake,
Which from his Table came, and to thine goeth?
Doth he bespeak thee thus, This Soul Bread take.
Come Eat thy fill of this thy God’s White Loaf?
It’s Food too fine for Angels, yet come, take
And Eat thy fill. Its Heaven’s Sugar Cake.
What Grace is this knead in this Loaf? This thing
Souls are but petty things it to admire.
Ye Angels, help: This fill would to the brim
Heav'ns whelm'd-down Chrystal meal Bowl, yea and higher.
This Bread of Life dropped in my mouth, doth cry.
Eat, Eat me, Soul, and thou shalt never die.
-- Edward Taylor, “Meditation 8”
