Old Books with Grace Dr. Grace Hamman

In this last episode of season four, Grace welcomes Dr. Lanta Davis to talk about spiritual formation in the beholding of the art of the past.
Lanta Davis is Professor of Humanities and Literature for the John Wesley Honors College at Indiana Wesleyan University. She’s written on literature, art, and history for Smithsonian Magazine, Christianity Today, Christian Century, Parabola, and Plough.  
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Today Grace welcomes Laura Fabrycky to discuss the fascinating, stirring, challenging life and context of theologian and martyr Dietrich Bonhoeffer, as well as Laura's own transformative experience as a guide at Bonhoeffer's Haus in Berlin. 
Laura M. Fabrycky is a writer, poet, and mother of three. She wrote Keys to Bonhoeffer’s Haus: Exploring the World and Wisdom of Dietrich Bonhoeffer. Laura is also a PhD student in systematic theology at ETF Leuven. Her family’s diplomatic postings include Doha, Qatar; Amman, Jordan; Washington, DC; Berlin Germany, and Brussels, Belgium. They currently live in the Washington, DC, area.

As a forever English major, Grace loves figurative language. So she was delighted to welcome Dr. Joy Clarkson for this episode on the power of metaphor and her recent book, You are a Tree.
Joy Clarkson is the author of Aggressively Happy and host of popular podcast, Speaking with Joy. She is the books editor for Plough Quarterly and a research associate in theology and literature at King’s College London. Joy completed her PhD in theology at the University of St Andrews, where she researched how art can be a resource of hope and consolation. Joy loves daffodils, birdwatching, and a well brewed cup of Yorkshire Gold tea. Learn more at JoyClarkson.com.

This year on Old Books with Grace, I am offering a Lent series on penitential poetry from Early Modern poets. That is, on poems of the past that reflect on one’s sin, on the need for forgiveness, on lament, on making things right, on conversion and satisfaction.
In the spirit of Lent, this series will be stripped down to the essentials, which is something I’m trying to maintain in my own life this season. I will give you some background on the poet and poem, where you can find the poem, and translation information if need be. Then, I will read you the poem. I will offer five minutes of silence on the podcast. If you’d like to take this opportunity to meditate on the poem, here is space for you. Today's poem is The Agony by George Herbert.
Philosophers have measur’d mountains,Fathom'd the depths of seas, of states, and kings,Walk’d with a staffe to heav’n, and traced fountains:But there are two vast, spacious things,The which to measure it doth more behove:Yet few there are that sound them; Sinne and Love.Who would know Sinne, let him repairUnto Mount Olivet; there shall he seeA man so wrung with pains, that all his hair,His skinne, his garments bloudie be.Sinne is that presse and vice, which forceth painTo hunt his cruell food through ev’ry vein.Who knows not Love, let him assayAnd taste that juice, which on the crosse a pikeDid set again abroach; then let him sayIf ever he did taste the like.Love is that liquour sweet and most divine,Which my God feels as bloud; but I, as wine.
 
 

This year on Old Books with Grace, I am offering a Lent series on penitential poetry from Early Modern poets. That is, on poems of the past that reflect on one’s sin, on the need for forgiveness, on lament, on making things right, on conversion and satisfaction.
In the spirit of Lent, this series will be stripped down to the essentials, which is something I’m trying to maintain in my own life this season. I will give you some background on the poet and poem, where you can find the poem, and translation information if need be. Then, I will read you the poem. I will offer five minutes of silence on the podcast. If you’d like to take this opportunity to meditate on the poem, here is space for you. Today's poem is A Hymn to God the Father by John Donne.
Wilt thou forgive that sin where I begun, 
         Which was my sin, though it were done before? 
Wilt thou forgive that sin, through which I run, 
         And do run still, though still I do deplore? 
                When thou hast done, thou hast not done, 
                        For I have more. 
 
Wilt thou forgive that sin which I have won 
         Others to sin, and made my sin their door? 
Wilt thou forgive that sin which I did shun 
         A year or two, but wallow'd in, a score? 
                When thou hast done, thou hast not done, 
                        For I have more. 
 
I have a sin of fear, that when I have spun 
         My last thread, I shall perish on the shore; 
But swear by thyself, that at my death thy Son 
         Shall shine as he shines now, and heretofore; 
                And, having done that, thou hast done; 
                        I fear no more. 

This year on Old Books with Grace, I am offering a Lent series on penitential poetry from Early Modern poets. That is, on poems of the past that reflect on one’s sin, on the need for forgiveness, on lament, on making things right, on conversion and satisfaction.
In the spirit of Lent, this series will be stripped down to the essentials, which is something I’m trying to maintain in my own life this season. I will give you some background on the poet and poem, where you can find the poem, and translation information if need be. Then, I will read you the poem. Then, I will offer something a little different for Old Books with Grace. I will offer five minutes of silence on the podcast. If you’d like to take this opportunity to meditate on the poem, here is space for you. Today's poem is a metrical translation of Psalm 51 by Lady Mary Sidney, Countess of Pembroke.
O Lord, whose grace no limits comprehend;
         Sweet Lord, whose mercies stand from measure free;
To me that grace, to me that mercy send,
         And wipe, O Lord, my sins from sinful me.
         Oh, cleanse, oh, wash, my foul iniquity;
               Cleanse still my spots, still wash away my stainings,
               Till stains and spots in me leave no remainings.
 
For I, alas, acknowledging do know
         My filthy fault, my faulty filthiness
To my soul’s eye incessantly doth show,
         Which done to thee, to thee I do confess,
         Just judge, true witness, that for righteousness
               Thy doom may pass against my guilt awarded,
               Thy evidence for truth may be regarded.
 
My mother, lo, when I began to be,
         Conceiving me, with me did sin conceive:
And as with living heat she cherished me,
         Corruption did like cherishing receive.
         But, lo, thy love to purest good doth cleave,
               And inward truth: which, hardly else discerned,
               My truant soul in thy hid school hath learned.
 
Then as thyself to lepers hast assigned,
         With hyssop, Lord, thy hyssop, purge me so:
And that shall cleanse the lepry of my mind.
         Make over me thy mercy’s streams to flow,
         So shall my whiteness scorn the whitest snow.
               To ear and heart send sounds and thoughts of gladness,
               That bruised bones may dance away their sadness.
 
Thy ill-pleased eye from my misdeeds avert:
         Cancel the registers my sins contain:
Create in me a pure, clean, spotless heart;
         Inspire a sprite where love of right may reign
         Ah, cast me not from thee; take not again
               Thy breathing grace; again thy comfort send me,
               And let the guard of thy free sprite attend me.
 
So I to them a guiding hand will be,
         Whose faulty feet have wandered from thy way,
And turned from sin will make return to thee,
         Whom turned from thee sin erst had led astray.
         O God, God of my health, oh, do away
               My bloody crime: so shall my tongue be raised
               To praise thy truth, enough cannot be praised.
 
Unlock my lips, shut up with sinful shame:
         Then shall my mouth, O Lord, thy honor sing.
For bleeding fuel for thy altar’s flame,
         To gain thy grace what boots it me to bring?
         Burt-off’rings are to thee no pleasant thing.
               The sacrifice that God will hold respected,
               Is the heart-broken soul, the sprite dejected.
 
Lastly, O Lord, how so I stand or fall,
         Leave not thy loved Zion to embrace;
But with thy favor build up Salem’s wall,
         And still in pe