"Whitsunday"

Whitsunday.

Listen sweet Dove unto my song, And spread thy golden wings in me; Hatching my tender heart so long, Till it get wing, and flie away with thee. Where is that fire which once descended On thy Apostles? thou didst then Keep open house, richly attended, Feasting all comers by twelve chosen men. Such glorious gifts thou didst bestow, That th’ earth did like a heav’n appeare; The starres were coming down to know If they might mend their wages, and serve here. The sunne, which once did shine alone, Hung down his head, and wisht for night, When he beheld twelve sunnes for one Going about the world, and giving light. But since those pipes of gold, which brought That cordiall water to our ground, Were cut and martyr’d by the fault Of those, who did themselves through their side wound, Thou shutt’st the doore, and keep’st within; Scarce a good joy creeps through the chink: And if the braves of conqu’ring sinne Did not excite thee, we should wholly sink. Lord, though we change, thou art the same; The same sweet God of love and light: Restore this day, for thy great name, Unto his ancient and miraculous right.

- George Herbert (from The Temple (1633))