230. A Thanksgiving to God, for His House
Lord, thou hast given me a cell,Wherein to dwell;A little house, whose humble roofIs weather proof;Under the spars of which I lieBoth soft and dry;Where thou, my chamber for to ward,Hast set a guardOf harmless thoughts, to watch and keepMe, while I sleep.Low is my porch, as is my fate;Both void of state;And yet the threshold of my doorIs worn by th’ poor,Who thither come, and freely getGood words, or meat.Like as my parlour, so my hallAnd kitchen’s small;A little buttery, and thereinA little bin,Which keeps my little loaf of breadUnchipt, unflead;Some brittle sticks of thorn or briarMake 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 beThere placed by thee;The worts, the purslain, and the messOf water-cress,Which of thy kindness thou hast sent;And my contentMakes those, and my beloved beet,To be more sweet.’Tis thou that crown’st my glittering hearthWith guiltless mirth,And giv’st me wassail bowls to drink,Spiced to the brink.Lord, ’tis thy plenty-dropping handThat soils my land,And giv’st me, for my bushel sown,Twice ten for one;Thou mak’st my teeming hen to layHer egg each day;Besides, my healthful ewes to bearMe twins each year;The while the conduits of my kineRun cream, for wine:All these, and better, thou dost sendMe, 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.