  Lord, thou hast given me a cell Wherein to dwell— A little house, whose humble roof Is weatherproof— Under the spans 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 hither come, and freely get Good words or meat. Like as my parlor, so my hall And kitchen's small. A little buttery, and therein A little bin. Which keeps my little loaf of bread Unchipt, unfled. Some brittle sticks of thorn or brier 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. '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 my land, And giv'st me for my bushel sown Twice ten for one. 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 God, by thee. FOOTNOTE: |
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