Robert Herrick (1591–1674)

CAN I not come to Thee, my God, for these

So very-many-meeting hindrances,

That slack my pace, but yet not make me stay?

Who slowly goes, rids, in the end, his way.

Clear Thou my paths, or shorten Thou my miles,

Remove the bars, or lift me o’er the stiles;

Since rough the way is, help me when I call,

And take me up; or else prevent the fall.

I ken my home, and it affords some ease

To see far off the smoking villages.

Fain would I rest, yet covet not to die

For fear of future biting penury:

No, no, my God,—Thou know’st my wishes be

To leave this life not loving it, but Thee.