His Blood Upon the Rose

Hello, Dear Reader,

I've not blogged for some time now, and all sorts of things are filling up my mind and making me ache to put them to paper, but time does not permit. Perhaps I'll find time for a few soon. Tonight, just one random point of interest.

My lovely sister introduced me to this song several months ago, but it never really caught my interest until recently. Like many other artistic works, it is the story in and behind Grace that most endears it to me. For me, underlying stories make up for many artistic defects. Symbolism in a song attracts me almost more than a story. So, when I tripped over the last verse, I sat back, puzzled, and scratched my head a tad (bit).

Now as the dawn is breaking, my heart is breaking too

On this May morn as I walk out, my thoughts will be of you

And I'll write some words upon the wall so everyone will know

I loved so much that I could see his blood upon the rose.

It seemed clear enough that "His blood upon the rose" was a symbolic reference to something or somebody, but who? My theological impulse of course brought a particular Man's particular Blood to my mind, but I shook my head. Couldn't be. Not in this type of song. But it couldn't be the singer's blood either, for he hadn't been executed yet, and even if he were envisioning the future, he wouldn't refer to himself in the third person, would he?

I asked my dear sister about this (or she asked me, or maybe we both asked each other) and we concluded that the best way to discover any potential reference would be to google the words, "his blood upon the rose." Having done this, she sent me this link. It appears that this poem was written by Joseph Plunkett, the singer in the song;

I see his blood upon the rose
And in the stars the glory of his eyes,
His body gleams amid eternal snows,
His tears fall from the skies.

I see his face in every flower;
The thunder and the singing of the birds
Are but his voice—and carven by his power
Rocks are his written words.

All pathways by his feet are worn,
His strong heart stirs the ever-beating sea,
His crown of thorns is twined with every thorn,
His cross is every tree.

It's beautiful. Really, it is. Creation seen in light of, contained in, and redeemed by Christ's Passion. All pathways by his feet are worn...His cross is every tree.

So the reference in the song is to Christ. Amazing. In the midst of tragedy, in his last twenty-four hours with his newly married wife, Plunkett wrote "some words upon the wall" there in the Kilmainham Jail. It is my guess that these are the words. Not words of sorrow over separation from his wife, nor of anger over his impending death, nor a hymn to the fighters for independence, but an expression of the significance of Christ's Godhead and Manhood for creation.

Particularly am I struck by the last line of the poem in the context of Plunkett's approaching execution. His cross is every tree. Though I have no way of knowing how Plunkett was put to death, I'd hazard a guess that hanging was standard procedure. With this in mind, I'd venture that Plunkett saw in his death a participation in the death of Christ - and an entrance into life. Now that's beautiful.

The song Grace retelling Plunkett's last day ends with the words, "I loved so much that I could see his blood upon the rose." Whom did he love? His wife? But that doesn't make sense, except in the sense that he looks into eternity to see a future reunion. Rather than that, it would seem that Plunkett loved a Savior, and his wife in the brilliant light of the the Same.

Anyway. There's a late night extrapolation on the basis of very slight evidence. However, I just couldn't get this out of my mind. Take it or leave it. I can't support my speculation - I just think it's awefully lovely.

Good Night! (Morning)

Choices, choices, choices.

'k guys. I'm trying to decide which poems to declaim for the Fair. They have to be related either by topic or author. Last year I did Scottish poets. This year I'm loosely using the topic of "Poetic Reflections on Character" (made by me).

I know I want to declaim:
How did you Die?
If
Nobility

Those are the first three poems below and require about 5 minutes. I could fill two minutes more, but I can't decide which poem to add of the ones I've typed out below. My least favorite of the options below is Be Strong and I figure that Not in Vain is probably pretty 'run of the mill'. But I can't decide between Polonius' Advice to Laertes and Waiting. I like Waiting a little more, but I don't know whether good ole Polonius fits with the topic better. I need some advice.

So please speak up and declare to me your wisdom!

How Did You Die?
Edmund Vance Cooke

Did you tackle that trouble that came your way
With a resolute heart and cheerful?
Or hide your face from the light of day
With a craven soul and fearful?
Oh, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce,
Or a trouble is what you make it,
And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts,
But only how did you take it?

You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that!
Come up with a smiling face.
It's nothing against you to fall down flat,
But to lie there--that's disgrace.
The harder you're thrown, why the higher you bounce
Be proud of your blackened eye!
It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts;
It's how did you fight--and why?

And though you be done to the death, what then?
If you battled the best you could,
If you played your part in the world of men,
Why, the Critic will call it good.
Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce,
And whether he's slow or spry,
It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts,
But only how did you die?




If
Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!


Nobility
Alice Cary
True worth is in being, not seeming,--
In doing, each day that goes by,
Some little good – not in dreaming
Of great things to do by and by.
For whatever men say in their blindness,
And spite of the fancies of youth,
There’s nothing so kingly as kindness,
And nothing so royal as truth.

We get back our mete as we measure –
We cannot do wrong and feel right,
Nor can we give pain and gain pleasure,
For justice avenges each slight.
The air for the wing of the sparrow,
The bush for the robin and wren,
But always the path that is narrow
And straight, for the children of men.

‘Tis not in the pages of story
The heart of its ills to beguile,
Though he who makes courtship to glory
Gives all that he hath for her smile.
For when from her heights he has won her,
Alas! it is only to prove
That nothing’s so sacred as honor,
And nothing so loyal as love!

We cannot make bargains for blisses,
Nor catch them like fishes in nets;
And sometimes the thing our life misses
Helps more than the thing which it gets.
For good lieth not in pursuing,
Nor gaining of great nor of small,
But just in the doing, and doing
As we would be done by, is all.

Through envy, through malice, through hating,
Against the world, early and late,
No jot of our courage abating –
Our part is to work and to wait.
And slight is the sting of his trouble
Whose winnings are less than his worth;
For he who is honest is noble,
Whatever his fortunes or birth.




Not in Vain
Emily Dickenson

If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain:
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.


Be Strong
Maltbie Davenport Babcock

Be strong!
We are not here to play, to dream, to drift;
We have hard work to do, and loads to lift;
Shun not the struggle – face it; ‘tis God’s gift.

Be strong!
Say not, “The days are evil. Who’s to blame?”
And fold the hands and acquiesce – oh shame!
Stand up, speak out, and bravely, in God’s name.

Be strong!
It matters not how deep intrenched the wrong,
How hard the battle goes, the day how long;
Faint not – fight on! Tomorrow comes the song.



Waiting
John Burroughs

Serene, I fold my hands and wait,
Nor care for wind nor tide nor sea;
I rave no more ‘gainst time or fate,
For lo! my own shall come to me.

I stay my hast, I make delays –
For what avails this eager pace?
I stand amid the eternal ways
And what is mine shall know my face.

Asleep, awake, by night or day,
The friends I seek are seeking me,
No wind can drive my bark astray
Nor change the tide of destiny.

What matter if I stand alone?
I wait with joy the coming years;
My heart shall reap where it has sown,
And garner up its fruit of tears.

The waters know their own, and draw
The brook that springs in yonder height;
So flows the good with equal law
Unto the soul of pure delight.

The stars come nightly to the sky;
The tidal wave unto the sea;
Nor time, nor space, nor deep nor high,
Can keep my own away from me.

Polonius’ Advice to Laertes
(from Hamlet)
William Shakespeare

There, -- my blessing with you!
And these few precepts in thy memory
See thou character. –Give thy thoughts no tongue,
Nor any unproportion’d thought his act.
Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar.
The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel;
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment
Of each new-hatched, unfledged comrade. Beware
Of entrance to a quarrel; but being in,
Bear’t that the opposed may beware of thee.
Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice:
Take each man’s censure, but reserve thy judgment.
Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,
But no expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy:
For the apparel oft proclaims the man.
Neither a borrower nor a lender be,
For loan oft loses both itself and friend,
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
This above all: to thine own self be true,
Ad it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.

Be Merciful to Me, a Fool!

I cannot blog tonight. At least I cannot blog anything worth reading. I haven’t written anything worthwhile since before AMEN. Several pieces have been in the works, stewing on the back burner, so to speak, since the conference, but I think I shall abandon them. At least for tonight.

Part of the problems is that my thoughts refuse to be gathered together meaningfully. My heart rebels against my mind. My flesh struggles with both. So how could my mind actually put into words what my heart screams? And if this feat were possible, how then could my fingers write those words which my mind painfully manages?

So, tonight I submit to you a poem. Nay! Do not pass over the humble poetry as if it were unimportant to the message of this post. I do not always present you, dear reader, with idle, fanciful poems, nor do I supply you with the work of far better writers simply to amuse you or show you what type of writing I respect and appreciate. On the contrary, often – and tonight is one such moment – I shyly speak to you through the lips of another. The poet wrought the verses, but the plea might as well be mine.

The Fool's Prayer
Edward R. Sills

The royal feast was done; the King
Sought some new sport to banish care,
And to his jester cried: “Sir Fool,
Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!”

The jester doffed his cap and bells,
And stood the mocking court before;
They could not see the bitter smile
Behind the painted grin he wore.

He bowed his head and bent his knee
Upon the monarch’s silken stool;
His pleading voice arose: “O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!

“No pity, Lord, could change the heart
From red with wrong to white as wool;
The rod must heal the sin: but, Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!

“ ‘Tis not by guilt the onward sweep
Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay;
‘Tis by our follies that so long
We hold the earth from heaven away.

“These clumsy feet, still in the mire,
Go crushing blossoms without end;
These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust
Among the heart-strings of a friend.

“The ill-timed truth we might have kept –
Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung?
The word we had not sense to say –
Who knows how grandly it had rung?

“Our faults no tenderness should ask,
The chastening stripes must cleanse them all;
But for our blunders – oh, in shame
Before the eyes of heaven we fall.

“Earth bears no balsam for mistakes;
Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool
That did his will; but Thou, O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!”

The room was hushed; in silence rose
The King, and sought his gardens cool,
And walked apart, and murmured low,
“Be merciful to me, a fool!”

Certain theological aspects of this poem are obviously skewed, but overall, I cry out with the jester. Men hurt and are hurt, sometimes purposefully, often not. But only with the Lord is there mercy. Though I can plead with the “King’s fool”, I all too often find myself in the role of the king – making sport of the sacred and being humbled and called to repentance by what I thought profane.
But Thou, O Lord, be merciful to me, a fool!

Marmion and Douglas

Here’s another of my favorites. Dramatic recitations are awesome! Anna and I have made quite a practice of quoting this one to each other. As far as I can tell, this is only an excerpt from a larger work by name of “Marmion”, though I have been unable thus far to lay hands on such a masterpiece. This one makes my Scottish adrenaline laden blood run fast. I do hope that William Wallace really was one of our ancestors!

Marmion and Douglas
Sir Walter Scott

The train from out the castle drew,
But Marmion stopped to bid adieu: --
“Though something I might plain,” he said
“Of cold respect to stranger guest,
Sent hither by your king’s behest,
While in Tantallon’s towers I stayed,
Part we in friendship from your land,
And noble Earl, receive my hand.” –

But Douglas round him drew his cloak,
Folded his arms, and thus he spoke: --
“My manors, halls, and bowers shall still
Be open, at my sovereign’s will
To each one whom he lists, howe’er
Unmeet to be the owner’s peer.
My castles are my king’s alone
From turret to foundation stone, --
The hand of Douglas is his own;
And never shall in friendly grasp
The hand of such as Marmion clasp.” –

Burned Marmion’s swarthy cheek like fire,
And shook his very frame for ire,
And –“ This to me!” he said, --
“An’t were not for thy hoary beard,
Such hand as Marmion’s had not spared
To cleave the Douglas’ head!
And first I tell thee, haughty Peer,
He who does England’s message here,
Although the meanest in her state,
May well, proud Angus, be thy mate:
And , Douglas, more I tell thee here,
Even in they pitch of pride,
Here in thy hold, they vassals near,
( Nay , never look upon your lord,
And lay your hands upon your sword,)
I tell thee, thou’rt defied!
And if thou said’st I am not peer to any lord in Scotland here,
Lowland or Highland, far or near,
Lord Angus, thou hast lied!”—
On the Earl’s cheek the flush of rage
O’er came the ashen hue of age;
Fierce he broke forth, -- “And dar’st thou then
To beard the lion in his den,
The Douglas in his hall?
And hop’st thou hence unscathed to go?
No, by St. Bride of Bothwell, no!
Up drawbridge, groom,-- what, Warder, ho!
Let the portcullis fall.”—

Lord Marmion turned, -- well was his need! –
And dashed the rowels in his steed,
Like arrow through the archway sprung;
The ponderous gate behind him rung:
To pass there was such scanty room,
The bars, descending, razed his plume.

The steed along the drawbridge flies,
Just as it trembled on the rise;
Not lighter does the swallow skim
Along the smooth lake’s level brim;
And when Lord Marmion reached his band
He halts, and turns with clenched hand,
And shout of loud defiance pours,
And shook his gauntlet at the towers.


Wow! I can just feel the deep defiance! What unplumbed depths of fiery heart which beats in the proud Douglas and what tension between the Scot and English lord! I can’t help but get really riled up and excited whenever I read this poem (Snap or Anna can tell you about that); my heart starts beating faster and I simply must raise and lower my voice at the appropriate places – I feel the urge to shout, “Lord Angus, Thou hast lied!” and “And dar’st thou then, to beard the lion in his den, the Douglas in his hall…no, by St. Bride of Bothwell, NO!” You have to put emphasis on those words or else you just don’t get the meaning. When the poem shifts to Douglas at the second stanza, you must fold your arms across your chest stubbornly. And at the end of the poem, you simply must shake your “clench-ed hand” at invisible towers. Oo! This is just TOO exciting! I want to run around quoting this poem.

"Cuddle Doon"

"Cuddle Doon"

Alexander Anderson


This is such a sweet poem! It reminds me so much of my own younger days of bedtime…and of putting the young Stuckwisch boys to bed while babysitting. I’d love to memorize this one, but I’d slaughter it: I really have no idea of the correct pronunciation for some of those words, even if I do have Scottish blood in my ancestry. No, I didn’t misspell anything.
I especially appreciate the last verse.


The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht
Wi’ muckle fash an’ din.
“Oh, try and sleep, ye waukrife rogues;
Your faither’s comin’ in.”
They never heed a word I speak.
I try to gie a froon;
But aye I hap them up, an’ cry,
“Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon!”

Wee Jamie wi’ the curly heid –
He aye sleeps next the wa’ –
Bangs up an’ cries, “I want a piece” –
The rascal starts them a’.
I rin an’ fetch them pieces, drinks –
They stop awee the soun’ –
Then draw the blankets up, an’ cry,
“Noo, weanies, cuddle doon!”

But ere five minutes gang, wee Rab
Cries oot, frae ‘neath the claes,
“Mither, mak’ Tam gie ower at ance:
He’s kittlin’ wi’ his taes.”
The mischief’s in that Tam for tricks;
He’d bother half the toon.
But aye I hap them up, an’ cry,
“Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon!”

At length they hear their father’s fit;
An’ as he steeks the door,
They turn their faces to the wa’,
While Tam pretends to snore.
“Hae a’ the weans been gude?” he asks,
As he pits aff his shoon.
“The bairnies, John, are in their beds,
An’ lang since cuddled doon.”

An’ just afore we bed oorsels,
We look at oor wee lambs.
Tam has his airm roun’ we Rab’s neck,
An’ Rab his airm roun’ Tam’s.
I lift wee Jamie up the bed,
An’ as I straik each croon,
I whisper, till my heart fills up,
“Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon!”

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht
Wi’ mirth that’s dear to me;
But soon the big warl’s cark an’ care
Will quaten doon their glee.
Yet come what will to ilka ane,
May he who rules aboon
Aye whisper, though their pows be bald,
“Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon!”