Broken in pieces all asunder,
Lord, hunt me not,
A thing forgot,
Once a poor creature, now a wonder,
A wonder tortur'd in the space
Betwixt this world and that of grace.
My thoughts are all a case of knives,
Wounding my heart
With scatter'd smart,
As wat'ring pots give flowers their lives.
Nothing their fury can control,
While they do wound and prick my soul.
All my attendants are at strife,
Quitting their place
Unto my face:
Nothing performs the task of life:
The elements are let loose to fight,
And while I live, try out their right.
Oh help, my God! let not their plot
Kill them and me,
And also thee,
Who art my life: dissolve the knot,
As the sun scatters by his light
All the rebellions of the night.
Then shall those powers, which work for grief,
Enter thy pay,
And day by day
Labour thy praise, and my relief;
With care and courage building me,
Till I reach heav'n, and much more, thee.
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Comments about this poem (Affliction (IV) by George Herbert )
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(November 19, 1942)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi
(1207 - 1273)
(22 July 1849 – 19 November 1887)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
William Ernest Henley
(1849 - 1902)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
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