The poem
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.