I remember being introduced to this poem, when I was at Keele University in the late 70s, by Roger Pooley, who was an English lecturer. It has stuck with me since. I used it the first time I presided at a parish communion service, post-ordination. It is not just about the Eucharist, Holy Communion, Lord's supper - call it what you will - but it speaks to me of that profound sense of invitation and welcome that is found at the table. In spite of everything we are. . . . . It is the Innkeeper offering a meal to a weary traveller, The generous host welcoming an unworthy guest. The Father welcoming back his prodigal son.
| LOVE bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back, | |
| Guilty of dust and sin. | |
| But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack | |
| From my first entrance in, | |
| Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning | 5 |
| If I lack'd anything. | |
| 'A guest,' I answer'd, 'worthy to be here:' | |
| Love said, 'You shall be he.' | |
| 'I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear, | |
| I cannot look on Thee.' | 10 |
| Love took my hand and smiling did reply, | |
| 'Who made the eyes but I?' | |
| 'Truth, Lord; but I have marr'd them: let my shame | |
| Go where it doth deserve.' | |
| 'And know you not,' says Love, 'Who bore the blame?' | 15 |
| 'My dear, then I will serve.' | |
| 'You must sit down,' says Love, 'and taste my meat.' | |
| So I did sit and eat. |
George Herbert. 1593–1632
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