George Herbert (1593–1633)

THOU that hast given so much to me,

Give one thing more,—a grateful heart.

See how Thy beggar works on Thee

By art:

He makes Thy gifts occasion more,

And says—If he in this be crost,

All Thou hast given him heretofore

Is lost.

But Thou didst reckon, when at first

Thy word our hearts and hands did crave,

What it would come to at the worst

To save.

Perpetual knockings at Thy door,

Tears sullying Thy transparent rooms,

Gift upon gift, much would have more,

And comes.

This notwithstanding, thou went’st on,

And didst allow us all our noise;

Nay, Thou hast made a sigh and groan,

Thy joys.

Not that Thou hast not still above

Much better tunes than groans can make,

But that these country airs Thy love

Did take.

Wherefore I cry, and cry again;

And in no quiet canst Thou be,

Till I a thankful heart obtain

Of Thee.

Not thankful when it pleaseth me,—

As if Thy blessings had spare days,—

But such a heart, whose pulse may be

Thy praise.