I crawl, I creep; my Christ, I come
To Thee for curing balsamum:
Thou hast, nay more, Thou art the tree
Affording salve of sovereignty.
My mouth I'll lay unto Thy wound
Bleeding, that no blood touch the ground:
For, rather than one drop shall fall
To waste, my JESU, I'll take all.
To Christ
Robert Herrick
(1)
Poem topics: tree, mouth, touch, waste, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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