George Herbert

A verse may finde him,who a sermon flies

And turns delight into a sacrifice.

Yet Lord restore thine image, hear my call:

And though my hard heart scare to thee can groan,

Remember that thou once didst write in stone.

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,

The bridal of the earth and sky;

The dew shall weep thy fall tonight,

For thou must die.

I cannot skill of these thy ways.

Lord, thou didst make me, yet thou woundest me;

Lord, thou dost wound me, yet thou dost relieve me:

Lord, thou relievest, yet I die by thee:

Lord, thou dost kill me, yet thou dost reprieve me.But when I mark my life and praise,

Thy justice me most fitly praise:

For, I do praise thee, yet I praise thee not:

My prayers mean thee, yet my prayers stray:

I would do well, yet sin the hand hath got:

My soul doth love thee, yet it loves delay.

I cannot skill of these my ways.

Man is God's image; but a poor man is

Christ's stamp to boot: both images regard.

Sundays observe; think when the bells do chime,

'Tis angels' music.