God Himself is Pressed

The bunch of grapes

Joy, I did lock thee up: but some bad man

                                     Hath let thee out again:

And now, me thinks, I am where I began

         Sev’n yeares ago: one vogue and vein,

         One aire of thoughts usurps my brain

I did towards Canaan draw; but now I am

Brought back to the Red sea, the sea of shame.

For as the Jews of old by Gods command

   Travell’d, and saw no town;

So now each Christian hath his journeys spann’d:

Their storie pennes and sets us down.

A single deed is small renown.

Gods works are wide, and let in future times;

His ancient justice overflows our crimes.

Then have we too our guardian fires and clouds;

   Our Scripture-dew drops fast:

We have our sands and serpents,
     tents and shrowds;

Alas! our murmurings come not last.

But where’s the cluster?  where’s the taste

Of mine inheritance?  Lord, if I must borrow,

Let me as well take up their joy, as sorrow.

But can he want the grape, who hath the wine?

   I have their fruit and more.

Blessed be God, who prosper’d Noahs vine,

And made it bring forth grapes good store.

But much more him I must adore,

Who of the Laws sowre juice sweet wine
       did make,

Ev’n God himself being pressed for my sake.

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– from The Temple (pub. 1633) by George Herbert