George Herbert’s speaker begins with an apology to God, already aware that his sins don’t just stop — they run in circles. He pictures his thoughts crackling like a restless flame, eventually hatching into something monstrous, a cockatrice. Those heated thoughts ignite his words, which spew out like volcanic fire from Sicily’s Mount Etna, spreading the harm further. But speech isn’t enough when the intentions are lewd, so his hands get involved, turning bad ideas into concrete acts. The sins build up like the Tower of Babel, a three-story structure of thoughts, words, and deeds. And once the cycle completes, the deeds themselves breed fresh sinful thoughts, looping him right back to where he started: “Sorry I am, my God, sorry I am.” The whole poem feels like a trapped, sorrowful confession — the speaker longs to break free but keeps spinning in the same weary round, his remorse genuine but powerless.
Sin's Round — Summary
Sorry I am, my God, sorry I am, That my offences course it in a ring. My thoughts are working like a busy flame, Until their cockatrice they hatch and bring: And when they once have perfected their draughts, My words take fire from my inflamed thoughts.
My words take fire fro m my inflamed thoughts, Which spit it forth like the Sicilian hill. They vent their wares, and pass them with their faults, And by their breathing ventilate the ill. But words suffice not, where are lewd intentions: My hands do join to finish the inventions.
My hands do join to finish the inventions: And so my sins ascend three stories high, As Babel grew, before there were dissentions. Let ill deeds loiter not: for they supply New thoughts of sinning: wherefore, to my shame, Sorry I am, my God, sorry I am.