““But art Thou come, dear Saviour? Hath Thy love Thus made Thee stoop, and leave Thy throne above The lofty Heavens, and thus Thyself to dress In dust to visit mortals? Could no less A condescension serve? And after all, The mean reception of a cratch and stall? Dear Lord, I'll fetch Thee thence; I have a room 'Tis poor, but 'tis my best, if Thou wilt come Within so small a cell, where I would fain Mine and the world's Redeemer entertain; I mean my heart; 'tis sluttish, I confess, And will not mend Thy lodging, Lord, unless Thou send before Thy harbinger, I mean Thy pure and purging grace, to make it clean, And sweep its nasty corners; then I'll try To wash it also with a weeping eye; And when 'tis swept and washed, I then will go, And, with Thy leave, I'll fetch some flowers that grow In Thine own garden, faith, and love to Thee; With those I'll dress it up; and these shall be My rosemary and bays; yet when my best Is done, the room's not fit for such a Guest. But here's the cure; Thy presence, Lord, alone Will make a stall a court, a cratch a throne.””
