Wounded I sing, tormented I indite,
         Thrown down I fall into a bed, and rest:
Sorrow hath chang’d its note: such is his will,
Who changeth all things, as him pleaseth best.
         For well he knows, if but one grief and smart
Among my many had his full career,
Sure it would carry with it ev’n my heart,
And both would run until they found a bier
To fetch the body; both being due to grief.
But he hath spoil’d the race; and giv’n to anguish
One of Joys coats, ’ticing it with relief
To linger in me, and together languish.
        I live to shew his power, who once did bring
        My joys to weep, and now my griefs to sing.

“WOUNDED” and “tormented” are very strong words in this poem, “Joseph’s Coat”. They indicate the intensity of the pain being experienced. Yet the poet proclaims that even when wounded he sings, even when tormented he indites. The word “indite” has for us an accusatory tone, but in Herbert’s time it meant to put into words, as we see in Milton, and Psalm 45 in the Book of Common Prayer: “My heart is inditing of a good matter.” This suffering is so debilitating that all he can do is fall back into his bed. But there, “Sorrow hath chang’d its note.”

Herbert was fascinated by the way music could bring about change, turn feelings into something else. Here, grief and hurt are given a new note. If left to themselves, they would have swept his heart along with them, and then both heart and body would race to the grave. “But he hath spoil’d the race.” Anguish has been given a new clothing, Joseph’s coat of many colours, one of them being joy. Joy entices grief to stay and linger rather than hurry to the grave. So it is that, as happiness can quickly turn to weeping, so grief can begin to sing; for all is within the good care of divine power and wisdom.

EVERYONE’s life is a mixture of good fortune and bad, happiness and sadness, pleasure and pain. As William Blake put it in “Auguries of Innocence”:

Joy and woe are woven fine
A clothing for the soul divine
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.

Herbert calls this clothing “Joseph’s coat”, the point being that Joseph was the beloved son: “Now Israel loved Joseph more than all his children, because he was the son of his old age: and he made him a coat of many colours” (Genesis 37.3 KJV).

Although this mixture of joy and woe often does not feel like the product of a wise and loving power, it is in fact the clothing of one who is deeply loved.

FOR the most part, we associate song with happiness. We sing when we are cheerful. How can we sing when we are down in the dumps? Clearly, it has to be a different kind of song, and there is, of course, much music that expresses sadness. It is not helpful to try to force oneself, let alone others, to be cheerful when they are feeling just the opposite. That’s why platitudes about clouds with a silver lining, calls to “cheer up”, and a set rictus smile grate.

During the exile in Babylon in the sixth century BCE, the Psalmist asks, “How could we sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land?” (Psalm 137.4). He knew he could not sing songs of jubilation, but the psalm itself is a song to the Lord, albeit in a sad key.

Irrespective of one’s own personal mood at any particular time, anyone who is sensitive will have a sense of sadness, anger, and sometimes despair about the state of the world, with all its tragedy, suffering, cruelty, and injustice. Believers may well say, “How could we sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land?” For some, the only answer lies in the Jesus Prayer, or a variation of it: “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have pity on your world.”

In the eucharist, the same sentiment is expressed when we sing or say the Agnus Dei, when we bring the pity of the suffering Lamb of God to bear upon our broken world.

THE central character in Stephen Beresford’s play The Southbury Child is a vicar who is something of a failure. He drinks, he has not been faithful, and the parish is united against him because, for once making a stand on principle, he won’t give a bereaved mother the balloons she wants at her child’s funeral. But at least he knows he is a failure. A particularly moving moment occurs near the end when he simply stands with a sense of helplessness and prays the Jesus Prayer.

The prayer of the Church is prayer for a failed world. But this prayer can be a kind of music: sad, haunting, but lifting grief into a new plane.

In his poem “East Coker”, T. S. Eliot writes of “the wounded surgeon”, and in recent years the phrase “the wounded healer” — which originated with Carl Jung — has become more widely known as the title of a book by Henri Nouwen. It is often those who are wounded who are best able to come close to the wounds of others. “Wounded I sing,” Herbert begins, and ends, “And now my griefs to sing.”

The Rt Revd Lord Harries of Pentregarth is a former Bishop of Oxford. This is an edited extract from his book Wounded I Sing: From Advent to Christmas with George Herbert, published by SPCK Publishing at £10.99 (Church Times Bookshop £8.79); 978-0-281-08942-0. He reviews Andrew Shanks’s new book Sublime Virtue here