God's Anger.

God can't be wrathful: but we may conclude
Wrathful He may be by similitude:
God's wrathful said to be, when He doth do
That without wrath which wrath doth force us to.

Robert Herrick

Robert Herrick was a 17th-century English lyric poet and cleric. He is known for his book of poems, "Hesperides," which includes the carpe diem poem "To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time." His works are noted for their clarity, simplicity, and musical quality. Herrick was also a vicar of Dean Prior in Devon, despite being ejected during the English Civil War and later reinstated.

Robert Herrick

Upon Franck.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

Upon Vinegar.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

The Vision.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

The Hag.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

God's Anger Without Affection.

God when He's angry here with anyone,
His wrath is free from perturbation;
And when we think His looks are sour and grim,
The alteration is in us, not Him.

Robert Herrick

To His Angry God.

Through all the night
Thou dost me fright,
And hold'st mine eyes from sleeping;
And day by day,
My cup can say
My wine is mix'd with weeping.

Thou dost my bread
With ashes knead
Each evening and each morrow;
Mine eye and ear
Do see and hear
The coming in of sorrow.

Thy scourge of steel,
Ah me! I feel
Upon me beating ever:
While my sick heart
With dismal smart
Is disacquainted never.

Long, long, I'm sure,
This can't endure,
But in short time 'twill please Thee,
My gentle God,
To burn the rod,
Or strike so as to ease me.

Robert Herrick

Affliction.

God ne'er afflicts us more than our desert,
Though He may seem to overact His part:
Sometimes He strikes us more than flesh can bear;
But yet still less than grace can suffer here.

Robert Herrick

To God.

Come to me, God; but do not come
To me as to the General Doom
In power; or come Thou in that state
When Thou Thy laws did'st promulgate,
Whenas the mountain quaked for dread,
And sullen clouds bound up his head.
No; lay Thy stately terrors by
To talk with me familiarly;
For if Thy thunder-claps I hear,
I shall less swoon than die for fear.
Speak Thou of love and I'll reply
By way of Epithalamy,
Or sing of mercy and I'll suit
To it my viol and my lute;
Thus let Thy lips but love distil,
Then come, my God, and hap what will.

Robert Herrick

To God.

Do with me, God, as Thou didst deal with John,
Who writ that heavenly Revelation.
Let me, like him, first cracks of thunder hear,
Then let the harps enchantments stroke mine ear:
Here give me thorns, there, in Thy kingdom, set
Upon my head the golden coronet;
There give me day; but here my dreadful night:
My sackcloth here; but there my stole of white.

Robert Herrick

To God.

God is all sufferance here; here He doth show
No arrow nockt, only a stringless bow:
His arrows fly, and all His stones are hurl'd
Against the wicked in another world.

Robert Herrick