A poet's hymn

Lord, thou hast given me a cell,

Wherein to dwell;

A little house, whose humble roof

Is weather proof.

Under the spars of which I lie

Both soft and dry;

Where thou my chamber for to ward

Hast set a guard

Of harmless thoughts to keep

Me while I sleep.

Low is my porch, as is my fate,

Both void of state;

And yet the threshold of my door

Is worn by the poor

Who thither come and freely get

Good words or meat.

Like as my parlour, so my hall

And kitchen's small

little buttery, and therein

A little bin,

Which keeps my little loaf of bread

Unchipp'd, unsped.

Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar

Make me a fire,

Close by whose living coal I sit

And glow like it.

All these and better thou dost send

Me to this end,

That I should render for my part

A thankful heart;

Which, fired by incense, I resign,

Wholly Thine,

But the acceptance must be,

My Christ, by Thee.