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Lord, hunt me not,
A thing forgot,
Once a poore creature, now a wonder,
A wonder tortur’d in the space
Betwixt this world and that of grace.
My thoughts are all a case of knives,
Wounding my heart
With scatter’d smart,
As watring pots give flowers their lives.
Nothing their furie can controll,
While they do wound and prick my soul.
All my attendants are at strife,
Quitting their place
Unto my face:
Nothing performs the task of life:
The elements are let loose to fight,
And while I live, trie out their right.
Oh help, my God! let not their plot
Kill them and me,
And also Thee,
Who art my life: dissolve the knot,
As the sunne scatters by his light
All the rebellions of the night.
Then shall those powers, which work for grief,
Enter Thy pay,
And day by day
Labour Thy praise, and my relief;
With care and courage building me,
Till I reach heav’n, and much more, Thee. —George Herbert (**spelling is 1663 English**)
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