And He that doth me feed:
While He is mine, and I am His,
What can I want or need?
He leads me to the tender grasse,
Where I both feed and rest;
Then to the streams that gently passe:
In both I have the best.
Or if I stray, He doth convert
And bring my minde in frame:
And all this not for my desert,
But for His holy name.
Yea, in death’s shadie black abode
Well may I walk, not fear:
For Thou art with me; and Thy rod
To guide, Thy staff to bear.
Nay, Thou dost make me sit and dine,
Ev’n in my enemies sight:
My head with oyl, my cup with wine
Runnes over day and night.
Surely Thy sweet and wondrous love
Shall measure all my dayes;
And as it never shall remove,
So neither shall my praise. —George Herbert