Lord, how I am all ague, when I seek <br />What I have treasur'd in my memory! <br />Since, if my soul make even with the week, <br />Each seventh note by right is due to thee. <br />I find there quarries of pil'd vanities, <br />But shreds of holiness, that dare not venture <br />To show their face, since cross to thy decrees: <br />There the circumference earth is, heav'n the centre. <br />In so much dregs the quintessence is small: <br />The spirit and good extract of my heart <br />Comes to about the many hundredth part. <br />Yet Lord restore thine image, hear my call: <br />And though my hard heart scarce to thee can groan, <br />Remember that thou once didst write in stone.<br /><br />George Herbert<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-sinner/
