George Herbert

"With sick and famish’d eyes"

With sick and famished eyes
With doubling knees, and weary bones
To thee my cries
To thee my groans
To thee my sighs, my tears ascend:
No end?

My throat, my soul is hoarse;
My heart is wither'd like a ground
Which thou dost curse;
My thoughts turn round
And make me giddy: Lord, I fall
Yet call

Bowels of pity hear!
Lord of my soul, love of my mind
Bow down thine ear!
Let not the wind
Scatter my words, and in the same
Thy name!

Look on my sorrows round;
Mark well my furnace!
O what flames
What heats abound!
What griefs, what shames!
Consider, Lord; Lord, bow thine ear
And hear!

Lord Jesu, thou didst bow
Thy dying head upon the tree;
O be not now
More dead to me!
Lord, hear! Shall he that made the ear
Not hear?

Behold! Thy dust doth stir
It moves, it creeps to thee;
Do not defer
To succour me
Thy pile of dust wherein each crumb
Says "Come"

My love, my sweetness, hear!
By these thy feet, at which my heart
Lies all the year
Pluck out thy dart
And heal my troubled breast, which cries
Which dies

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