In George Herbert’s “The Thanksgiving,” the speaker addresses Christ as “King of grief” and “King of wounds,” then frantically searches for a way to return that suffering. He imagines weeping blood or letting himself be scourged, but immediately realizes the story is already told—Christ’s pain is beyond imitation. So he pivots to generous gestures: giving away wealth, dedicating family, mending roads, even reading scripture until he can “turn back” its lessons of love. Yet each new resolution feels playful and slightly desperate, piling up promises without real resolution. When he finally circles back to the passion itself, the poem breaks off: “Alas, my God, I know not what.” The mood is intimate and uneven—wrenchingly earnest in its desire, disarmingly quiet in its collapse. Herbert creates a speaker who wants to give thanks but discovers that the only adequate response is an awed, helpless silence.
The Thanksgiving — Summary
Oh King of grief! (a title strange, yet true, To thee of all kings only due) Oh King of wounds! how shall I grieve for thee, Who in all grief preventest me? Shall I weep blood? why thou has wept such store That all thy body was one door. Shall I be scourged, flouted, boxed, sold? 'Tis but to tell the tale is told. 'My God, my God, why dost thou part from me? ' Was such a grief as cannot be. Shall I then sing, skipping, thy doleful story, And side with thy triumphant glory? Shall thy strokes be my stroking? thorns, my flower? Thy rod, my posy? cross, my bower? But how then shall I imitate thee, and Copy thy fair, though bloody hand? Surely I will revenge me on thy love, And try who shall victorious prove. If thou dost give me wealth, I will restore All back unto thee by the poor. If thou dost give me honour, men shall see, The honour doth belong to thee. I will not marry; or, if she be mine, She and her children shall be thine. My bosom friend, if he blaspheme thy name, I will tear thence his love and fame. One half of me being gone, the rest I give Unto some Chapel, die or live. As for thy passion - But of that anon, When with the other I have done. For thy predestination I'll contrive, That three years hence, if I survive, I'll build a spittle, or mend common ways, But mend mine own without delays. Then I will use the works of thy creation, As if I us'd them but for fashion. The world and I will quarrel; and the year Shall not perceive, that I am here. My music shall find thee, and ev'ry string Shall have his attribute to sing; That all together may accord in thee, And prove one God, one harmony. If thou shalt give me wit, it shall appear; If thou hast giv'n it me, 'tis here. Nay, I will read thy book, and never move Till I have found therein thy love; Thy art of love, which I'll turn back on thee, O my dear Saviour, Victory! Then for thy passion - I will do for that - Alas, my God, I know not what.