Another To God.

Lord, do not beat me,
Since I do sob and cry,
And swoon away to die,
Ere Thou dost threat me.
Lord, do not scourge me,
If I by lies and oaths
Have soil'd myself or clothes,
But rather purge me.

Robert Herrick

Robert Herrick was a 17th-century English lyric poet and cleric. He is known for his book of poems, "Hesperides," which includes the carpe diem poem "To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time." His works are noted for their clarity, simplicity, and musical quality. Herrick was also a vicar of Dean Prior in Devon, despite being ejected during the English Civil War and later reinstated.

Robert Herrick

Upon A Child That Died

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

Calling And Correcting.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

On Gilly-Flowers Begotten.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

Like Pattern, Like People.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

To God.

Make, make me Thine, my gracious God,
Or with Thy staff, or with Thy rod;
And be the blow, too, what it will,
Lord, I will kiss it, though it kill:
Beat me, bruise me, rack me, rend me,
Yet, in torments, I'll commend Thee;
Examine me with fire, and prove me
To the full, yet I will love Thee;
Nor shall Thou give so deep a wound
But I as patient will be found.

Robert Herrick

To God.

I'll come, I'll creep, though Thou dost threat,
Humbly unto Thy mercy-seat:
When I am there, this then I'll do,
Give Thee a dart, and dagger too;
Next, when I have my faults confessed,
Naked I'll show a sighing breast;
Which if that can't Thy pity woo,
Then let Thy justice do the rest
    And strike it through.

Robert Herrick

To His Angry God.

Through all the night
Thou dost me fright,
And hold'st mine eyes from sleeping;
And day by day,
My cup can say
My wine is mix'd with weeping.

Thou dost my bread
With ashes knead
Each evening and each morrow;
Mine eye and ear
Do see and hear
The coming in of sorrow.

Thy scourge of steel,
Ah me! I feel
Upon me beating ever:
While my sick heart
With dismal smart
Is disacquainted never.

Long, long, I'm sure,
This can't endure,
But in short time 'twill please Thee,
My gentle God,
To burn the rod,
Or strike so as to ease me.

Robert Herrick

To God.

Do with me, God, as Thou didst deal with John,
Who writ that heavenly Revelation.
Let me, like him, first cracks of thunder hear,
Then let the harps enchantments stroke mine ear:
Here give me thorns, there, in Thy kingdom, set
Upon my head the golden coronet;
There give me day; but here my dreadful night:
My sackcloth here; but there my stole of white.

Robert Herrick

An Ode, Or Psalm To God.

        Dear God,
If Thy smart rod
Here did not make me sorry,
I should not be
With Thine or Thee
In Thy eternal glory.

        But since
Thou didst convince
My sins by gently striking;
Add still to those
First stripes new blows,
According to Thy liking.

        Fear me,
Or scourging tear me;
That thus from vices driven,
I may from hell
Fly up to dwell
With Thee and Thine in heaven.

Robert Herrick

Another To His Saviour.

If Thou be'st taken, God forbid
I fly from Thee, as others did:
But if Thou wilt so honour me
As to accept my company,
I'll follow Thee, hap hap what shall,
Both to the judge and judgment hall:
And, if I see Thee posted there,
To be all-flayed with whipping-cheer,
I'll take my share; or else, my God,
Thy stripes I'll kiss, or burn the rod.

Robert Herrick