D.O.M. by HENRY WOTTON

Eternal mover, whose diffused glory,
To shew our grovelling reason what thou art,
Unfolds itself in clouds of nature's story,
Where man, thy proudest creature, acts his part,
Whom yet, alas! I know not why, we call
The world's contracted sum, the little all;
For what are we but lumps of walking clay?
Why should we swel? whence should our spirits rise?
Are not bruit beasts as strong, and birds as gay,
Trees longer liv'd, and creeping things as wise?
Only our souls was left an inward light,
To feel our weaknes, and confess thy might.
Thou, then, our strength, father of life and death,
To whom our thanks, our vows, ourselves we ow,
From me, they tenant of this fading breath,
Accept those lines which from thy goodnes flow;
And thou, that wert thy regal prophet's Muse,
Do not thy praise in weaker strains refuse.
Let these poor notes ascend unto thy throne,
Where majesty doth sit, with mercy crown'd,
Where my redeemer lives, in whom alone
The errours of my wandring life are drown'd,
Where all the quire of heav'n resound the same,
That only thine, thine is the saving name.

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