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by George Herbert
O BLESSED bodie !  Whither art thou thrown ?
No lodging for thee, but a cold hard stone ?
So many hearts on earth, and yet not one
                                          Receive thee ?

Sure there is room within our hearts good store ;
For they can lodge transgressions by the score :
Thousands of toyes dwell there, yet out of doore
                                          They leave thee.

But that which shews them large, shews them unfit.
What ever sinne did this pure rock commit,
Which holds thee now ?   Who hath indited it
                                          Of murder ?

Where our hard hearts have took up stones to braine thee,
And missing this, most falsely did arraigne thee ;
Onely these stones in quiet entertain thee,
                                          And order.

And as of old, the law by heavínly art,
Was writ in stone ;  so thou, which also art
The letter of the word, findíst no fit heart
                                          To hold thee.

Yet do we still persist as we began,
And so should perish, but that nothing can,
Though it be cold, hard, foul, from loving man
                                          Withhold thee.