My God, I heard this day
That none doth build a stately habitation
But he that means to dwell therein.
What house more stately hath there been,
Or can be, than is man? to whose creation
All things are in decay.
More servants wait on man
Than he'll take notice of: in every path
He treads down that which doth befriend him,
When sickness makes him pale and wan.
O mighty love! man is one world, and hath
Another to attend him.
For us the winds do blow,
The earth doth rest, heaven move, and fountains flow;
Nothing we see but means our good,
As our delight or as our treasure;
The whole is either cupboard of our food,
Or cabinet of pleasure.
The stars have us to bed;
Night draws the curtain, which the sun withdraws;
Music and light attend our head;
All things unto our flesh are kind
In their descent and being; to our mind,
In their ascent and cause.
Since then, my God, thou hast
So brave a palace built, O dwell in it
That it may dwell with thee at last.
Till then, afford us so much wit
That, as the world serves us, we may serve thee,
And both thy servants be.
--George Herbert.