A FEAST OF WILD STRAWBERRIES 



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 placed by Thee ; 

 The Worts, the Purslain, and the mess 



Of Watercress, 

 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, 



Spiced 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, fired with incense, I resign, 



As wholly thine ; 

 But the acceptance, that must be, 



My Christ, by Thee. 



