---

Henry Vaughan - "Thou That Know`st for Whom I Mourn"
Work rating: Low

THOU that know`st for whom I mourn, 
       And why these tears appear, 
That keep`st account till he return 
       Of all his dust left here ; 
As easily Thou might`st prevent, 
       As now produce, these tears, 
And add unto that day he went 
       A fair supply of years. 
But `twas my sin that forc`d Thy hand 
       To cull this primrose out, 
That by Thy early choice forewarn`d 
       My soul might look about. 
O what a vanity is man ! 
       How like the eye`s quick wink 
His cottage fails ; whose narrow span 
       Begins even at the brink ! 
Nine months thy hands are fashioning us, 
       And many years—alas !— 
Ere we can lisp, or ought discuss 
       Concerning Thee, must pass ; 
Yet have I known Thy slightest things, 
       A feather, or a shell, 
A stick, or rod, which some chance brings 
       The best of us excel ; 
Yea, I have known these shreds outlast 
       A fair-compacted frame, 
And for one twenty we have past 
       Almost outlive our name. 
Thus hast Thou plac`d in man`s outside 
       Death to the common eye, 
That heaven within him might abide, 
       And close eternity ; 
Hence youth, and folly, man`s first shame, 
       Are put unto the slaughter, 
And serious thoughts begin to tame 
       The wise man`s madness, laughter. 
Dull, wretched worms ! that would not keep 
       Within our first fair bed, 
But out of Paradise must creep 
       For ev`ry foot to tread ! 
Yet had our pilgrimage been free, 
       And smooth without a thorn, 
Pleasures had foil`d eternity, 
       And tares had chok`d the corn. 
Thus by the cross salvation runs ; 
       Affliction is a mother 
Whose painful throes yield many sons, 
       Each fairer than the other. 
A silent tear can pierce Thy throne, 
       When loud joys want a wing ; 
And sweeter airs stream from a groan, 
       Than any arted string. 
Thus, Lord, I see my gain is great, 
       My loss but little to it ; 
Yet something more I must entreat, 
       And only Thou canst do it. 
O let me—like him—know my end ! 
       And be as glad to find it : 
And whatsoe`er Thou shalt commend, 
       Still let Thy servant mind it ! 
Then make my soul white as his own, 
       My faith as pure and steady, 
And deck me, Lord, with the same crown 
       Thou hast crown`d him already !
Source
The script ran 0.002 seconds.