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George Herbert - Home
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Come, Lord, my head doth burn, my heart is sick,
       While thou dost ever, ever stay:
Thy long deferrings wound me to the quick,
       My spirit gaspeth night and day.
                                O show thy self to me,
                                Or take me up to thee!

How canst thou stay, considering the pace
       The bloud did make, which thou didst waste?
When I behold it trickling down thy face,
       I never saw thing make such haste.
                                O show thy self to me,
                                Or take me up to thee!

When man was lost, thy pitie lookt about,
       To see what help in th` earth or skie:
But there was none; at least no help without:
       The help did in thy bosome lie.
                                O show thy self to me,
                                Or take me up to thee!

There lay thy Sonne: and must he leave that nest,
       That hive of sweetnesse, to remove
Thraldome from those, who would not at a feast
        Leave one poor apple for thy love?
                                O show thy self to me,
                                Or take me up to thee!

He did, he came: O my Redeemer deare,
       After all this canst thou be strange?
So many yeares baptiz`d, and not appeare;
       As if thy love could fail or change?
                                O show thy self to me,
                                Or take me up to thee!

Yet if thou stayest still, why must I stay?
       My God, what is this world to me?
This world of wo? hence, all ye clouds, away,
       Away; I must get up and see.
                                O show thy self to me,
                                Or take me up to thee!

What is this weary world; this meat and drink,
       That chains us by the teeth so fast?
What is this woman-kinde, which I can wink
       Into a blacknesse and distaste?
                                O show thy self to me,
                                Or take me up to thee!

With one small sigh thou gav`st me th` other day
       I blasted all the joyes about me:
And scouling on them as they pin`d away,
       Now come again, said I, and flout me,
                                O show thy self to me,
                                Or take me up to thee!

Nothing but drought and dearth, but bush and brake,
       Which way soe`re I look, I see.
Some may dream merrily, but when they wake,
       They dresse themselves and come to thee.
                                O show thy self to me,
                                Or take me up to thee!

We talk of harvests; there are no such things,
       But when we leave our corn and hay:
There is no fruitfull yeare, but that which brings
       The last and lov`d, though dreadfull day.
                                O show thy self to me,
                                Or take me up to thee!

Oh loose this frame, this knot of man untie!
       That my free soul may use her wing,
Which now is pinion`d with mortalitie,
       As an intangled, hamper`d thing.
                                O show thy self to me,
                                Or take me up to thee!

What have I left, that I should stay and grone?
       The most of me to heav`n is fled:
My thoughts and joyes are all packt up and gone,
       And for their old acquaintance plead.
                                O show thy self to me,
                                Or take me up to thee!

Come, dearest Lord, passe not this holy season,
       My flesh and bones and joynts do pray:
And ev`n my verse, when by the ryme and reason
       The word is, Stay, says ever, Come.
                                O show thy self to me,
                                Or take me up to thee!
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