A Thanksgiving to God, for his House

By Robert Herrick

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 watch and 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 th’ poor,

Who thither come and freely get

         Good words, or meat.

Like as my parlour, so my hall

         And kitchen’s small;

A little buttery, and therein

         A little bin,

Which keeps my little loaf of bread

         Unchipp’d, unflead;

Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar

         Make me a fire,

Close by whose living coal I sit,

         And glow like it.

Lord, I confess too, when I dine,

         The pulse is Thine,

And all those other bits, that be

         There plac’d by Thee;

The worts, the purslain, and the mess

         Of water-cress,

Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent;

         And my content

Makes those, and my beloved beet,

         To be more sweet.

‘Tis Thou that crown’st my glittering hearth

         With guiltless mirth;

And giv’st me wassail-bowls to drink,

         Spic’d to the brink.

Lord, ’tis Thy plenty-dropping hand

         That soils my land;

And giv’st me, for my bushel sown,

         Twice ten for one;

Thou mak’st my teeming hen to lay

         Her egg each day;

Besides my healthful ewes to bear

         Me twins each year;

The while the conduits of my kine

         Run cream, for wine.

All these, and better, Thou dost send

         Me, to this end,

That I should render, for my part,

         A thankful heart,

Which, fir’d with incense, I resign,

         As wholly Thine;

But the acceptance, that must be,

         My Christ, by Thee.