Prayer for Aid

I AM the bird, my lure Thy heavenly grain ;
Thy story tames me like a magic strain.
Thou hast equipped me for mine earthly race,
And opened for my feet Thy door of grace.
Thou hast not spurned my feeble service ; Thou
My head exaltest when in prayer I bow.
To Thy pure path through Thee my forehead cleaves
Mine eye clear vision from Thy touch receives.
By Thee my lips to sing Thy praise are stirred,
And in my heart Thy name is charactered.
Thou at the portal of my throat hast hung
That member soft and delicate, my tongue,
To meet with gentle touch and tempered sound
The rows of even teeth which fence it round.
Sweeten my lips, O Lord, to sing of Thee ;
From taint of gall make Thou mine utterance free.
This tongue, Thy gift, from evil words restrain ;
Ne’er may it lead me to disgrace or pain.
And if my pen, in. unconsidered haste,
A word that needs excuse or blame has traced,
Each letter that offends in mercy blot,
And keep mine honour free from stain and spot.
Thy nursling I, a weed beside the way,
Kaised by Thy bounty from the mire and clay :
Each breeze that passes bows my humble head,
Yet in Thy path my clinging rootlets spread
To clay more precious than the rose may be
Whose scent and beauty speak not, Lord, of Thee.
Like some sweet bud’s, a single heart be mine,
The tulip’s single mark within its shrine.
A double heart is fraught with grief and pain,
And single-mindedness alone is gain.
The full ear holds a hundred grains, and all
Beneath the sickle of the reaper fall :
The rosebud wears a single heart, and scorns
The thousand daggers of encircling thorns.
Though vast the burthen of my many crimes,
Thy grace is vaster, Lord, a thousand times.
If ample garners scarce contain my guilt,
My lightning sighs may burn them if Thou wilt.
What though a hundred books my sins record ?
Thou with my tears canst wash them clean, O Lord.
Each cheek I loved, fair as the rose’s bud,
Draws from each eyelash now a tear of blood.
Still from their fount the drops of anguish start
And wash each lovely image from my heart.
In vain mine eyes would look for honour fled
Mine only honour is the tear I shed.
Mine eyes are rivers full of floods of shame :
This till the Day of Doom is all my fame.
Now if my yearning aught of gain may bring,
Lead to the Prophet, Lord, the song I sing.