As in the house I sate,
Alone and desolate, No creature but the fire and I,
The chimney and the stool,
I lift mine eye Up to the wall, And in the silent hall, Saw nothing mine But some few cups and dishes shine, The table and the wooden stools Where people used to dine; A painted cloth there was, Wherein some ancient story wrought A little entertained my thought, Which light discovered through the glass.
I wondered much to see That all my wealth should be Confined in such a little room,
Yet hope for more I scarcely durst presume. It grieved me sore That such a scanty store Should be my all; For I forgot my ease and health, Nor did I think of hands or eyes, Nor soul nor body prize; I neither thought the sun, Nor moon, nor stars, nor people mine, Though they did round about me shine; And therefore was I quite undone.
Some greater things,
I thought,
Must needs for me be wrought, Which till my craving mind could see I ever should lament my poverty; I fain would have Whatever bounty gave, Nor could there be Without or love or deity; For should not he be infinite Whose hand created me? Ten thousand absent things Did vex my poor and wanting mind, Which, till I be no longer blind, Let me not see the King of kings.
His love must surely be Rich, infinite, and free; Nor can he be thought a God Of grace and power, that fills not his abode, His holy court, In kind and liberal sort; Joys and pleasures, Plenty of jewels, goods, and treasures, To enrich the poor, cheer the forlorn, His palace must adorn, And given all to me; For till his works my wealth became, No love or peace did me inflame: But now I have a Deity.
