by George Herbert
Come, bring thy gift. If blessings were as slow
As men's returns, what would become of fools?
What hast thou there? a heart? but is it pure?
Search well and see; for hearts have many holes.
Yet one pure heart is nothing to bestow:
In Christ two natures met to be thy cure.
O that within us hearts had propagation,
Since many gifts do challenge many hearts!
Yet one, if good, may title to a number;
And single things grow fruitful by deserts.
In public judgements one may be a nation,
And fence a plague, while others sleep and slumber.
But all I fear is lest thy heart displease,
As neither good, nor one: so oft divisions
Thy lusts have made, and not thy lusts alone;
Thy passions also have their set partitions.
These parcel out thy heart: recover these,
And thou mayst offer many gifts in one.
There is a balsam, or indeed a blood,
Dropping from heav'n, which doth both cleanse and close
All sorts of wounds; of such strange force it is.
Seek out this All-heal, and seek no repose,
ntil thou find and use it to thy good:
Then bring thy gift; and let thy hymn be this;
Since my sadness
Lord thou dost convert,
What thou hast kept,
As thy due desert.
Had I many,
Had I any
(For this heart is none),
All were thine And none of mine:
Surely thine alone.
Yet thy favour
May give savour
To this poor oblation;
And it raise
To be thy praise,
And be my salvation.