Henry Charles Beeching, ed. (1859–1919). Lyra Sacra: A Book of Religious Verse. 1903.
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AND 1 art Thou come, blest Babe, and come to me? | |
Come down to teach me how to come to Thee? | |
Welcome, thrice welcome, to my panting soul, | |
Which, as it loves, doth grieve that ’tis so foul. | |
The less ’tis fit for Thee come from above, | 5 |
The more it needs Thee, and the more I love. | |
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But art Thou come, dear Saviour? hath Thy love | |
Thus made Thee stoop and leave Thy throne above, | |
Thy lofty heavens, and thus Thyself to dress | |
In dust to visit mortals? Could no less | 10 |
A condescension serve, and after all | |
The mean reception of a cratch and stall? | |
Dear Lord, I’ll fetch Thee hence! I have a room— | |
’Tis poor, but ’tis my best—if Thou wilt come | |
Within so small a cell, where I would fain | 15 |
Mine and the world’s Redeemer entertain. | |
I mean my heart; ’tis sluttish, I confess, | |
And will not mend Thy lodging, Lord, unless | |
Thou send before Thy harbinger, I mean | |
Thy pure and purging Grace, to make it clean, | 20 |
And sweep its nasty corners; then I’ll try | |
To wash it also with a weeping eye. | |
And when ’tis swept and wash’d, I then will go | |
And with Thy leave I’ll fetch some flowers that grow | |
In thine own garden, Faith and Love, to Thee; | 25 |
With these I’ll dress it up, and these shall be | |
My rosemary and bays. Yet when my best | |
Is done, the room’s not fit for such a guest: | |
But here’s the cure; Thy presence, Lord, alone | |
Will make a stall a Court, a cratch a Throne. | 30 |