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Poem by George Herbert


The Sinner


Lord, how I am all ague, when I seek
What I have treasur'd in my memory!
Since, if my soul make even with the week,
Each seventh note by right is due to thee.
I find there quarries of pil'd vanities,
But shreds of holiness, that dare not venture
To show their face, since cross to thy decrees:
There the circumference earth is, heav'n the centre.
In so much dregs the quintessence is small:
The spirit and good extract of my heart
Comes to about the many hundredth part.
Yet Lord restore thine image, hear my call:
And though my hard heart scarce to thee can groan,
Remember that thou once didst write in stone. 



George Herbert


George Herbert's other poems:
  1. Sin's Round
  2. Love (Immortal Love, authour of this great frame)
  3. Charms and Knots
  4. Clasping of Hands
  5. The Temper


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