A Hymn to God the Father

Wilt thou forgive that sin where I begun, Which was my sin, though it were done before? Wilt thou forgive those sins through which I run, And do run still, though still I do deplore?

When thou hast done, thou hast not done, for I Have an end in me, which no one sees, For no Redeemer blest, and lonely I Dare not divert. O sweet our modern sense, are these.

What a lovely spring! I touch the dew-filled ground. Each toneless orb brings light of hornéd green;— And countless ochre, splendour, glimmered, found. Where art thou now? Can I sense the divine sheen?

For every time I breathe, I long for thee, Yet know not all your answers love require. Let peace anoint my soul, and let me see All the respites connived as those I aspire.

O Mother, bless my heart with living clay, Where by your hand with Nature I broke free, And here we can spread blankets and let the dew lay, To draw forth from lands what’s rooted in Nature’s glee!

• John Donne