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Poem by George Herbert
Man. SWEETEST Saviour, if my soul Were but worth the having, Quickly should I then control Any thought of waving. But when all my care and pains Cannot give the name of gains To Thy wretch so full of stains, What delight or hope remains? Saviour. What, child, is the balance thine, Thine the poise and measure? If I say, 'Thou shalt be Mine,' Finger not My treasure. What the gains in having thee Do amount to, only He Who for man was sold can see; That transferr'd th' accounts to Me. Man. But as I can see no merit Leading to this favour, So the way to fit me for it Is beyond my savour. As the reason, then, is Thine, So the way is none of mine; I disclaim the whole design; Sin disclaims and I resign. Saviour. That is all: if that I could Get without repining; And My clay, My creature, would Follow My resigning; That as I did freely part With My glory and desert, Left all joys to feel all smart---- Man. Ah, no more! Thou break'st my heart!
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