John
What happy secret fountain,
Fair shade or mountain,
Whose undiscovered virgin
Boasts it this day, though not in story,
Was then thy dwelling?
Did some cloud,
Fixed to a tent, descend a
My distressed Lord?
Or did a star,
Beckoned by Thee, though high and far,
In sparkling smiles haste gladly
To lodge light and increase her own?
My dear, dear God!
I do not
What lodged Thee then, nor where, nor how;
But I am sure Thou dost now
Oft to a narrow, homely room,
Where Thou too hast but the least part:
My God,
I mean my sinful heart.
