Misery
LORD, let the angels praise Thy name:Man is a foolish thing, a foolish thing;Folly and sin play all his game;His house still burns, and yet he still doth sing—Man is but grass,He knows it—‘Fill the glass.’
How canst Thou brook his foolishness?Why, he’ll not lose a cup of drink for Thee:Bid him but temper his excess,Not he: he knows where he can better be—As he will swear—Than to serve Thee in fear.
What strange pollutions doth he wed,And make his own! as if none knew but he.No man shall beat into his headThat Thou within his curtains drawn canst see:‘They are of clothWhere never yet came moth.’
The best of men, turn but Thy handFor one poor minute, stumble at a pin;They would not have their actions scanned,Nor any sorrow tell them that they sin,Though it be small,And measure not the fall.
They quarrel Thee, and would give overThe bargain made to serve Thee; but Thy loveHolds them unto it, and doth coverTheir follies with the wings of Thy mild Dove,Not suffering thoseWho would, to be Thy foes.
My God, man cannot praise Thy name:Thou art all brightness, perfect purity;The sun holds down his head for shame,Dead with eclipses, when we speak of Thee:How shall infectionPresume on Thy perfection?
As dirty hands foul all they touch,And those things most which are most pure and fine,So our clay-hearts, even when we crouchTo sing Thy praises, make them less divine:Yet either thisOr none Thy portion is.
Man cannot serve Thee: let him goAnd serve the swine—there, that is his delight:He doth not like this virtue, no;Give him his dirt to wallow in all night:‘These preachers makeHis head to shoot and ache.’
O foolish man! where are thine eyes?How hast thou lost them in a crowd of cares!Thou pull’st the rug, and wilt not rise,No, not to purchase the whole pack of stars:‘There let them shine;Thou must go sleep or dine.’
The bird that sees a dainty bowerMade in the tree, where she was wont to sit,Wonders and sings, but not His powerWho made the arbour; this exceeds her wit.But man doth knowThe Spring whence all things flow:
And yet, as though he knew it not,His knowledge winks, and lets his humours reign;They make his life a constant blot,And all the blood of God to run in vain.Ah, wretch! what verseCan thy strange ways rehearse?
Indeed, at first man was a treasure,A box of jewels, shop of rarities,A ring whose posy was ‘my pleasure’;He was a garden in a Paradise;Glory and graceDid crown his heart and face.
But sin hath fooled him; now he isA lump of flesh, without a foot or wingTo raise him to a glimpse of bliss;A sick-tossed vessel, dashing on each thing,Nay, his own shelf:My God, I mean myself.
JAMES SHIRLEY 1596–1666