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March 27, 2016


  RISE heart; thy Lord is risen. Sing his praise
           Without delayes,
  Who takes thee by the hand, that thou likewise
           With him mayst rise:
  That, as his death calcined thee to dust,
  His life may make thee gold, and much more just.

  Awake, my lute, and struggle for thy part
           With all thy art
  The crosse taught all wood to resound his name
           Who bore the same.
  His stretched sinews taught all strings, what key
  Is best to celebrate this most high day.
  Confort both heart and lute, and twist a song
           Pleasant and long:
  Or since all musick is but three parts vied
           And multiplied;
  O let thy blessed Spirit bear a part,
  And make up our defects with his sweet art.

  I got me flowers to straw thy way;
  I got me boughs off many a tree:
  But thou wast up by break of day,
  And broughtst thy sweets along with thee.

  The Sunne arising in the East,
  Though he give light, and th’ East perfume;
  If they should offer to contest
  With thy arising, they presume.

  Can there be any day but this,
  Though many sunnes to shine endeavour?
  We count three hundred, but we misse:
  There is but one, and that one ever.


The Temple
George Herbert, The Works of George Herbert (London: George Routledge & Co., 1854), 34–35.

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