Sunday Inspiration: Carrion Comfort

by Gerard Manley Hopkins

NOT, I’ll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist—slack they may be—these last strands of man
In me ór, most weary, cry I can no more. I can;
Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to
be.
But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me 
Thy wring-world right foot rock? lay a lionlimb against
me? scan
With darksome devouring eyes my bruisèd bones? and
fan,
O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to
avoid thee and flee?

Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and
clear.
Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod, 
Hand rather, my heart lo! lapped strength, stole joy,
would laugh, chéer.
Cheer whom though? the hero whose heaven-handling
flung me, fóot tród
Me? or me that fought him? O which one? is it each one?
That night, that year
Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my
God!) my God.

I'd like to explain a little bit what this very dense poem means to me. This is my personal interpretation, rather than a scholarly one, but it is the meaning that has pulled me through many a dark day.

NOT, I’ll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist—slack they may be—these last strands of man
In me

I love the strength of the opening declaration: I won't give in to despair because that would be like feeding on carrion; I may feel that I'm unraveling, but I won't untwist those remaining strands.

ór, most weary, cry I can no more. I can;
Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.

Nor will I give up and say I can't do anything. I can always do something, if only it is to hope for daylight after my darkness or to decide to keep on going--"not choose not to be."

But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me
Thy wring-world right foot rock? lay a lionlimb against me? scan
With darksome devouring eyes my bruisèd bones? and fan,
O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee and flee?

Sometimes to my human perspective, God seems so terrible. He seems to be pushing me around just for the hell of it. When I try to escape him, he batters me more.

Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and clear.

Is God doing this just to purge me of my sin, my chaff?

Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod,
Hand rather, my heart lo! lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, chéer.

In the years since I submitted my life to God, I have gained strength and joy. I have cheered him.

Cheer whom though? the hero whose heaven-handling flung me, fóot tród
Me? or me that fought him? O which one? is it each one?

But whom am I cheering? The God who has allowed me to go through so many trials, or myself for fighting him? Is there a difference? Are we separate?

That night, that year
Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.

I look back on this time of pain—this "now done darkness"—and remember that in the process of fighting him, just as Jacob wrestled with the angel, I experienced both my own wretchedness and his strength gripping me And again I acknowledge that my god, this is my God.