I love, and have some cause to love, the earth;
She is my Maker's creature, therefore good;
She is my mother, for she gave me birth;
She is my tender nurse, she gives me food;
But what's a creature, Lord, compared with Thee?
Or what's my mother or my nurse to me?
The highest honors that the world can boast
Are subjects far too low for my desire;
The brightest beams of glory are, at most,
But dying sparkles of thy living fire;
The proudest flames that earth can kindle be
But nightly glowworms if compared to Thee.
Without thy presence, wealth are bags of cares;
Wisdom, but folly; joy, disquiet, sadness;
Friendship is treason, and delights are snares;
Pleasure's but pain, and mirth but pleasing madness:
Without Thee, Lord, things be not what they be,
Nor have their being when compared with Thee.
In having all things, and not Thee, what have I?
Not having Thee, what have my labors got?
Let me enjoy but Thee, what further crave I?
And having Thee alone, what have I not?
I wish nor sea nor land; nor would I be
Possess'd of heaven, heaven unpossess'd of thee.
--Francis Quarles.
Only for Jesus! Lord, keep it ever
Sealed on the heart, and engraved on the life;
Pulse of all gladness, and nerve of endeavor,
Secret of rest and the strength of our strife.
--Frances Ridley Havergal.