The Flower

How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean Are thy returns! Even as the flowers in spring;
To which, besides their own, The lovely advantages we bring.
Sorrow, and pain, and indifferent sleep,
And death, shall find us in the storm, Wage, sleep, or palpitate, do what you will,
We lie unmoved,
And feel no part of ill.
But stubborn faith our hearts doth keep
To make our springing-time rejoice,
When the delightfully frees our tongues,
And makes our spirits sing.
Let every flower not show our joys—
Not purchased but bestowed.

• George Herbert