MY soul, I am ashamed of thee, thou nursed
Where praise and prayer like angels ever trod
The stair to heaven, wilt thou choose the rod
Of error’s sharp reproof and gall for thirst?
Or wretched dwellings is not self the words?
From this low ceiling roll a psalm to God?
Till conscience answered, Is thy lot so odd
If tenant of a narrow house? But first
Mock not what God hath wrought. Did not He grant
That seat where erring dust might hear His voice?
Work while He gives thee light, nor quit that post
His plan assigns. What! Is thy wit so scant?
The grub and worm serve God and trees rejoice,
Warm tears from eyes uplifted praise him most.