Come, my light, my feast, my strength!
Such a light as shows a feast;
Such a feast as mends in length;
Such a strength as makes his guest.
Come, my joy, my love, my heart!
Such a joy as none can move;
Such a love as none can part;
Such a heart as joys in love.
LORD, thou art mine! and I am thine,
If mine I am: and thine much more,
Than I or ought, or can be mine.
Yet to be thine, doth me restore;
So that again I now am mine,
And with advantage mine the more;
Since this being mine, brings with it thine,
And thou with me dost thee restore.
If I without thee would be mine,
I neither should be mine nor thine.
Lord, I am thine, and thou art mine!
So mine thou art, that something more
I may presume thee mine, than thine.
For thou didst suffer to restore-
Not thee, but me; and to be mine:
And with advantage mine the more,
Since thou in death wast none of thine;
Yet then as mine didst me restore.
O be mine still! Still make me thine ;
Or rather make no thine and mine!
WHEN God at first made man,
Having a glass of blessing standing by,
"Let us," said he, "pour on him all we can :
Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie,
Contract into a span."
So strength first made away :
Then beauty flow'd; then wisdom, honour, plea
When almost all was out, God made a stay,
Perceiving that alone of all his treasure
Rest in the bottom lay.
"For if I should," said he, "Bestow this jewel also on my creature, He would adore my gifts instead of me; And rest in nature, not the God of nature:So both should losers be.
"Yet let him keep the rest;
But keep them with repining restlessness:
Let him be rich and weary; that at least,
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
May toss him to my breast."
BLEST order, which in power dost so excel,
That with th' one hand thou liftest to the sky,
And with the other throwest down to hell
In thy just censures; fain would I draw nigh,
Fain put thee on, exchanging my lay-sword
For that of the holy Word.
But thou art fire, sacred and hallow'd fire;
And I but earth and clay: should I presume
To wear thy habit, the severe attire
My slender compositions might consume.
I am both foul and brittle, much unfit
To deal in holy writ.
Yet have I often seen, by cunning hand
And force of fire, what curious things are made
Of wretched earth. Where once I scorn'd to stand,
That earth is fittest by the fire and trade
Of skilful artists, for the boards of those
Who make the bravests shows.
But since those great ones, be they ne'er so great, Come from the earth, from whence those vessels
So that at once both feeder, dish, and meat
Have one beginning, and one final sum ;
I do not greatly wonder at the sight,
If earth in earth delight.
But the holy men of God such vessels are,
As serve Him up, who all the world commands:
When God vouchsafeth to become our fare,
Their hands convey Him, who conveys their
Oh, what pure things, most pure, must those things
Wherefore I dare not, I, put forth my hand
To hold the ark, although it seem to shake
Through th' old sins and new doctrines of our land.
Only-since God doth often vessels make
Of lowly matter for high uses meet-
I throw me at his feet.
There will I lie, until my Maker seek
For some mean stuff whereon to show his skill:
Then is my time. The distance of the meek
Doth flatter power. Lest good come short of ill
In praising might, the poor do by submission,
What pride by opposition.
O WHO will give me tears? Come all ye springs, Dwell in my head and eyes: come, clouds and
My grief hath need of all the watery things,
That nature hath produc'd. Let every vein
Suck up a river to supply mine eyes,
My weary weeping eyes too dry for me,
Unless they get new conduits, new supplies,
To bear them out, and with my state agree.
What are two shallow fords, two little spouts
Of a less world? The greater is but small,
A narrow cupboard for my griefs and doubts,
Which want provision in the midst of all.
Verses, ye are too fine a thing, too wise
For my rough sorrows: Cease! be dumb and mute,
Give up your feet and running to mine eyes,
And keep your measures for some lover's lute,
Whose grief allows him music and a rhyme; For mine excludes both measure, tune and time. -Alas, my God!
How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean
Are thy returns! ev'n as the flow'rs in spring:
To which, besides their own demean,
The late-past frost's tributes of pleasure bring.
Grief melts away
Like snow in May,
As if there were no such cold thing.
Who would have thought my shrivell❜d heart Could have recover'd greenness? It was gone Quite under ground, as flowers depart To see their mother-root, when they have blown; Where they together
All the hard weather
Dead to the world, keep house unknown.
These are thy wonders, Lord of power!
Killing and quick'ning, bringing down to hell
And up to heaven in an hour;
Making a chiming of a passing-bell.
We say amiss,
Thy word is all, if we would spell.
Oh, that I once past changing were;
Fast in thy Paradise, where no flow'r can wither!
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