An Offering

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Come, bring thy gift.  If blessings were as slow
As men's returns, what would become of fools?
What hast thou there? a heart? but is it pure?
Search well and see, for hearts have many holes.
Yet one pure heart is nothing to bestow:
In Christ two natures met to be thy cure.

O that within us hearts had propagation,
Since many gifts do challenge many hearts!
Yet one, if good, may title to a number;
And single things grow fruitfull by deserts.
In publick judgments one may be a nation,
And fence a plague, while others sleep and slumber.

But all I fear is lest thy heart displease,
As neigher good, nor one: so oft divisions
Thy lusts have made, and not thy lusts alone;
Thy passions also have their set partitions.
These parcell out thy heart: recover these
And thou mayst offer many gifts in one.

There is a balsome, or indeed a bloud,
Dropping from heav'n, which doth both cleanse and close
All sorts of wounds; of such strange force it is.
Seek out his All-heal, and seek no repose,
Until thou finde, and use it to thy good:
Then bring thy gift; and let thy hymne be this;

  Since my sadnesse
  Into gladnesse,
  Lord thou dost convert,
  O accept
  What thou hast kept,
  As thy due desert.

  Had I many,
  Had I any,
  (For this heart is none)
  All were thine
  And none of mine,
  Surely thine alone.

  Yet thy favour
  May give savour
  To this poor oblation;
  And it raise
  To be thy praise,
  And be my salvation.

© George Herbert