A Thanksgiving to God for His House

Lord, Thou hast given me a cell

Wherein to dwell;

An little house, whose humble roof

Is weather-proof;

Under the spars of which I lie

Both soft and dry;

Where Thou my chamber for to ward

Hast set a guard

Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep

Me, while I sleep.

Low is my porch as is my fate,

Both void of state;

And yet the threshold of my door

Is worn by'th' poor,

Who thither come, and freely get

Good words, or meat;

Like as my parlour, so my hall

And kitchen's small;

A little butterie and therein

A little bin,

Which keeps my little loaf of bread

Unchipp'd, unflay'd;

Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar

Make me a fire,

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 plac'd by Thee;

The worts, the purslain, and the mess

Of water-cress,

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 glitt'ring hearth

With guiltless mirth;

And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink,

Spic'd 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, fir'd with incense, I resign

As wholly Thine;

But the acceptance, that must be,

My Christ, by Thee.