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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.

Poem by Robert Herrick
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