Читать книгу Selected Works - George Herbert - Страница 31

HOW should I praise thee, Lord! how should my rymes

Gladly engrave thy love in steel,

If what my soul doth feel sometimes,

My soul might ever feel!

Although there were some fourtie heav’ns, or more,

Sometimes I peere above them all;

Sometimes I hardly reach a score,

Sometimes to hell I fall.

O rack me not to such a vast extent;

Those distances belong to thee:

The world’s too little for thy tent,

A grave too big for me.

Wilt thou meet arms with man, that thou dost stretch

A crumme of dust from heav’n to hell?

Will great God measure with a wretch?

Shall he thy stature spell?

O let me, when thy roof my soul hath hid,

O let me roost and nestle there:

Then of a sinner thou art rid

And I of hope and fear.

Yet take thy way; for sure thy way is best:

Stretch or contract me thy poore debter:

This is but tuning of my breast,

To make the musick better.

Whether I flie with angels, fall with dust,

Thy hands made both, and I am there.

Thy power and love, my love and trust,

Make one place ev’ry where.