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How fresh, O
Lord, how sweet and clean
Are thy returns! ev'n as
the flowers in spring;
To which, besides their own
demean,
The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure
bring.
Grief melts away
Like snows in May,
As
if there were no such cold thing.
Who would have
thought my shrivelled heart
Could have recovered
greenness? It was gone
Quite under ground; as flowers
depart
To see their mother-root, when they have
blown;
Where they together
All the hard weather,
Dead to the world, keep house unknown.
These are thy
wonders, Lord of power,
Killing and quick'ning,
bringing down to hell
And up to heaven in an hour;
Making a chiming of a passing-bell.
We say amiss,
This or that is:
Thy word is all, if we could spell.
O that I once past changing were,
Fast in thy
Paradise, where no flower can wither!
Many a spring I
shoot up fair,
Off'ring at heav'n, growing and
groaning thither:
Nor doth my flower
Want a spring
shower,
My sins and I joining together.
But while
I grow in a straight line,
Still upwards bent, as if
heav'n were mine own,
Thy anger comes, and I decline:
What frost to that? What pole is not the zone,
Where
all things burn,
When thou dost turn,
And the
least frown of thine is shown?
And now in age I bud
again,
After so many deaths I live and write;
I
once more smell the dew and rain,
And relish versing:
O my only light,
It cannot be
That I am he
On
whom thy tempests fell all night.
These are thy
wonders, Lord of love,
To make us see we are but
flowers that glide;
Which when we once can find and
prove,
Thou hast a garden for us, where to bide.
Who would be more,
Swelling through store,
Forfeit
their Paradise by their pride.
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