by George Herbert
KIll me not ev’ry day,
Thou Lord of life; since thy one death for me
Is more then all my deaths can be,
Though I in broken pay
Die over each hour of Methusalems1 stay.
If all mens tears were let
Into one common sewer, sea, and brine;
What were they all, compar’d to thine?
Wherein if they were set,
They would discolour thy most bloudy sweat.
Thou art my grief alone,
Thou Lord conceal it not: and as thou art
All my delight, so all my smart;
Thy cross took up in one,
By way of imprest, all my future mone.
Last updated August 11, 2015