The Ebb and Flow

When first thou on me, Lord, wrought'st thy sweet print,

    My heart was made thy tinder box.

    My ’ffections were thy tinder in’t:

        Where fell thy sparks by drops.

Those holy sparks of heavenly fire that came

Did ever catch and often out would flame.

 

But now my heart is made thy censer trim,

    Full of thy golden altar’s fire,

    To offer up sweet incense in

        Unto thyself entire:

I find my tinder scarce thy sparks can feel

That drop out from thy holy flint and steel.

 

Hence doubts out bud for fear thy fire in me

    ’S a mocking ignis fatuus;

    Or lest thine altars fire out be,

        It’s hid in ashes thus.

Yet when the bellows of thy spirit blow

Away mine ashes, then thy fire doth glow.