by George Herbert

Sweetest Savior, if my soul
   Were but worth the having,
Quickly should I then control
   Any thought of waving
But when all my care and pains
Cannot give the name of gains
To Thy wretch so full of stains,
What delight or hope remains?

"What, Child, is the balance thine,
  Thine the poise and measure?
If I say, 'Thou shalt be Mine,'
  Finger not My treasure.
What the gains in having thee
Do amount to, only He
Who for man was sold can see;
That transferred th'accounts to me."

But as I can see no merit
  Leading to this favor;
So the way to fit for it
  Is beyond my savor.
As the reason then is Thine,
So the way is none of mine;
I disclaim the whole design;
Sin disclaims and I resign.

"That is all, if that I could
  Get without repining;
And my clay, My creature, would
  Follow my resigning;
That as I did freely part
With My glory and desert,
Left all joys to feel all smart--"
     Ah, no more; Thou break'st my heart.