Confession
The Cunning of Grief
Grief and affliction penetrate every hidden corner of the heart, revealing their relentless and subtle nature.
Oh, what a cunning guest this grief is! I built closets in my heart, and inside them, many a chest; and, like a master at my trade, I put boxes in those chests, and in each box, a till. Yet grief knows them all and enters whenever he wants.1 No screw or drill can work and twist into a piece of timber the way God's afflictions work into a person when he has designed a torture.2 They are too subtle for the subtlest hearts, and they fall, like a rheum, on the tenderest parts.3 We are the earth, and they are like moles inside us, heaving and throwing the ground around. And until they set foot on their prey and grip it, they never cool down, let alone give up. No blacksmith can make a lock so strong that they don't have a key for it: private closets are like open halls to them, and hearts are open highways.
The Open Heart's Confession
Only an open heart and honest confession can shut out affliction and win God's pardon.
Only an open heart shuts them out, so they can't enter; or if they do enter, they can't rest, but quickly look for some new adventure. Smooth open hearts have no fastening; but pretense gives affliction a hold and a handle.45 So, Lord, I acknowledge my faults and sins; take your plagues away. For since confession wins pardon, I challenge here the brightest day, the clearest diamond: let them do their best—they'll still be thick and cloudy next to my breast.
Read the original English
O What a cunning guest Is this same grief! within my heart I made Closets, and in them many a chest; And, like a master in my trade, In those chests, boxes; in each box, a till: Yet grief knows all, and enters when he will.
No scrue, no piercer can Into a piece of timber work and winde, As Gods afflictions into man, When he a torture hath design'd. They are too subtill for the subt'llest hearts; And fall, like rheumes, upon the tendrest parts.
We are the earth; and they, Like moles within us, heave, and cast about: And till they foot and clutch their prey, They never cool, much lesse give out. No smith can make such locks but they have keyes: Closets are halls to them; and hearts, high-wayes.
Onely an open breast Doth shut them out, so that they cannot enter; Or, if they enter, cannot rest, But quickly seek some new adventure. Smooth open hearts no fastning have; but fiction Doth give a hold and handle to affliction.
Wherefore my faults and sinnes, Lord, I acknowledge; take thy plagues away: For since confession pardon winnes, I challenge here the brightest day, The clearest diamond: let them do their best, They shall be thick and cloudie to my breast.
Notes
- 1 ↩Herbert's nested containers (closet → chest → box → till) image secret compartments for hiding the heart's stores; 'till' is the small inner drawer or cash compartment.
- 2 ↩scrue/piercer: Early Modern woodworking tools (screw and boring/piercing bit). work and winde: bore and twist deeper in.
- 3 ↩rheumes: Early Modern medical image of colds/catarrhs that settle on the body's softest places; kept as 'rheums' to preserve the bodily metaphor.
- 4 ↩Early modern 'fiction' here means something feigned or fabricated—pretense, concealment, invented cover—not literary storytelling. Rendered as 'pretense' for modern clarity while keeping Herbert's grip/handle metaphor.
- 5 ↩Normalized as 'fastening': a catch or place to latch on. Smooth open hearts give sins/affliction nothing to grip.
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