The Sinner (from The Temple, 1633)
Lord, how am I all ague when I seek
What I have treasur'd in my memorie!
Since, if my soul make even with the week,
Each seventh note by right is due to thee.
I finde there quarries of pil'd vanities,
But shreds of holinesse that dare not venture
To show their face, since cross to thy decrees.
There the circumference earth is, heav'n the center.
In so much dregs the quintessence is small:
The spirit and good extract of my heart
Comes to about the many hundred part.
Yet, Lord, restore thine image. Heare my call:
And though my hard heart scarce to thee can grone,
Remember that thou once didst write on stone.
Update: Rueful Red left another nice Herbert poem in comments.
Subscribe to:
Comment Feed (RSS)
