How 'bout a little George Herbert for this morning?

The Discharge

God chains the dog till night; wilt loose the chain
And wake thy sorrow?
Wilt thou forestall it, and now grieve tomorrow,
And then again
Grieve over freshly all thy pain?
Either grief will not come, or if it must,
Do not forecast;
And while it cometh, it is almost past.
Away, distrust;
My God hath promis'd; He is just.



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This page contains a single entry by MamaT published on September 29, 2009 7:04 AM.

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