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The Book

Eternal God! Maker of all
That have lived here, since the man's fall;
The Rock of ages! in whose shade
They live unseen, when here they fade.
Thou knew'st this paper, when it was
Mere seed, and after that but grass;
Before 'twas drest or spun, and when
Made linen, who did wear it then:
What were their lives, their thoughts and deeds
Whether good corn, or fruitless weeds.

¡@¡@Thou knew'st this Tree, when a green shade
Covered it, since a Cover made,
And where it flourished, grew and spread,
As if it never should be dead.

¡@¡@Thou knew'st this harmless beast, when he
Did live and feed by thy decree
On each green thing; then slept (well fed)
Clothed with this skin, which now lies spread
A Covering o'er this aged book,
Which makes me wisely weep and look
On my own dust; mere dust it is,
But not so dry and clean as this.
Thou knew'st and saw'st them all and though
Now scattered thus, dost know them so.

¡@¡@O knowing, glorious Spirit! when
Thou shalt restore trees, beasts and men,
When thou shalt make all new again,
Destroying only death and pain,
Give him amongst thy works a place,
Who in them loved and sought thy face!

Henry Vaughan (1621-1695)
English religious poet

 


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