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.
To His Angry God

by Robert Herrick, 1647
