When first Thou on me, Lord, wroughtest Thy sweet print, <br />My heart was made Thy tinder-box, <br />My 'ffections were Thy tinder in't, <br />Where fell Thy sparks by drops. <br />Those holy sparks of heavenly fire that came <br />Did ever catch and often out would flame. <br /> <br />But now my heart is made Thy censer trim, <br />Full of Thy golden altar's fire, <br />To offer up sweet incense in <br />Unto Thyself entire: <br />I find my tinder scarce Thy sparks can feel <br />That drop from out Thy holy flint and steel. <br /> <br />Hence doubts out bud for fear Thy fire in me <br />'S a mocking ignis fatuus, <br />Or lest Thine altar's fire out be, <br />It's hid in ashes thus. <br />Yet when the bellows of Thy spirit blow <br />Away mine ashes, then Thy fire doth glow.<br /><br />Edward Taylor<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ebb-and-flow-6/
