by Thomas Traherne


  That all things should be mine,
  This makes His bounty most divine:
  But that they all more rich should be,
    And far more brightly shine,
      As used by me;
It ravisheth my soul to see the end,
To which this work so wonderful doth tend.


  That we should make the skies
  More glorious far before Thine eyes
  Than Thou didst make them, and even Thee
    Far more Thy works to prize,
      As used they be
Than as they're made, is a stupendous work,
Wherein Thy wisdom mightily doth lurk.


  Thy greatness, and Thy love,
  Thy power, in this, my joy doth move;
  Thy goodness, and felicity
    In this exprest above
      All praise I see:
While Thy great Godhead over all doth reign,
And such an end in such a sort attain.


  What bound may we assign,
  O God, to any work of thine!
  Their endlessness discovers thee
    In all to be Divine;
      A Deity
That will for evermore exceed the end
Of all that creature's wit can comprehend.


  Am I a glorious spring
  Of joys and riches to my King?
  Are men made Gods? And may they see
    So wonderful a thing
      As God in me?
And is my soul a mirror that must shine
Even like the sun and be far more divine?


  Thy Soul, O God, doth prize
  The seas, the earth, our souls, the skies;
  As we return the same to Thee
    They more delight Thine eyes,
      And sweeter be
As unto thee we offer up the same,
Than as to us from Thee at first they came.


  O how doth Sacred Love
  His gifts refine, exalt, improve!
  Our love to creatures makes them be
    In Thine esteem above
      Themselves to Thee!
O here His goodness evermore admire!
He made our souls to make His creatures higher.

Monadnock Valley Press > Traherne