Who would have thought my shriveled heart
Could have recovered greenness? I was gone
Quite underground; as flowers depart
To see their mother-root, when they have blown;
Where they together
All the hard weather,
Dead to the world, keep house unknown.

And now in age I bud again,
After so many deaths I live and write;
I once more smell the dew and rain,
And relish versing: Oh my only light
It cannot be
That I am he
On whom they tempests fell all night.

These are thy wonders, Lord of love,
To make us see we are but flowers that glide;
Which when we once can find and prove,
You have a garden for us, where to bide.
Who would be more,
Swelling through store,
Forfeit their paradise by their pride.

—The Temple

Today I conclude this series of offerings from George Herbert, Anglican priest and theologian. I hope you will savor the wondrous grace expressed in this poem and use it to thank God for his wonderful blessings on us, even in the midst of our heartaches.