Wednesday, November 26, 2014



Thou that hast given so much to me,
Give one thing more, a gratefull heart.
See how thy beggar works on thee
By art.

He makes thy gifts occasion more,
And sayes, If he in this be crost,
All thou has given him heretofore
Is lost.

But thou didst reckon, when at first
Thy word our hearts and hands did crave,
What it would come to at the worst
To save.

Perpetuall knockings at thy door,
Tears sullying thy transparent rooms,
Gift upon gift, much would have more,
And comes.

This not withstanding, thou wentst on,
And didst allow us all our noise:
Nay thou has made a sigh and grone
Thy joyes.

Not that thou hast not still above
Much better tunes, then grones can make;
But that these country-aires thy love
Did take.

Wherefore I crie, and crie again;
And in no quiet canst thou be,
Till I a thankful heart obtain
Of thee:

Not thankful, when it pleaseth me;
As if thy blessings had spare days:
But such a heart, whose pulse may be
Thy praise.

~ George Herbert 1593-1633 ~

     This book was given to me by a friend who did not possess a love of poetry and, therefore, had no real use for the book. It is an old volume, the pages are yellowed and brittle, the book feels fragile when I hold it in my hands as though, at any moment, it might crumble into dust and scatter into the wind. There are several poems within it that I adore, but this one is my favorite. The passion it inspires outlasts the holiday and infuses the other days of my year with a gratefulness that strengthens with use and quickens my sluggish heart with a pulse of praise.


  1. Beautiful Thanksgiving post!

  2. "Amen" I say to the writer, and again I say "amen".