The Treasury Of Sacred Song

LORD, Thou hast given me a cell

Wherein to dwell;

A little house, whose humble roof

Is weather-proof;

Under the spars of which I lie

Both soft, and dry;

Where Thou my chamber for to ward

Hast set a Guard

Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep

Me, while I sleep.

Low is my porch, as is my Fate,

Both void of state;

And yet the threshold of my door

Is worn by the poor,

Who thither come, and freely get

Good words, or meat:

Like as my Parlour, so my Hall

And Kitchen's small:

A little Buttery, and therein

A little Bin,

Which keeps my little loaf of Bread

Unchipt, unflead [95] :

Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar

Make me a fire,

Close by whose living coal I sit,

And glow like it.

LORD, I confess too, when I dine,

The Pulse is Thine,

And all those other bits, that be

There placed by Thee;

The Worts, the Purslain, and the mess

Of water-cress,

Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent;

And my content

Makes those, and my belovéd Beet,

To be more sweet.

'Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering Hearth

With guiltless mirth;

And giv'st me Wassail-bowls to drink,

Spiced to the brink.

Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand

That soils [96] my land;

And giv'st me, for my bushel sown,

Twice ten for one:

Thou mak'st my teeming Hen to lay

Her egg each day:

Besides my healthful Ewes to bear

Me twins each year:

The while the conduits of my Kine

Run Cream, (for Wine,)

All these, and better, Thou dost send

Me, to this end,

That I should render, for my part,

A thankful heart;

Which, fired with incense, I resign,

As wholly Thine;

But the acceptance, -- that must be,

My CHRIST, by Thee.