Lord, thou hast given me a cell,
Wherein to dwell;
A little house, whose humble roof
Is weather proof.
Under the spars of which I lie
Both soft and dry;
Where thou my chamber for to ward
Hast set a guard
Of harmless thoughts to keep
Me while I sleep.
Low is my porch, as is my fate,
Both void of state;
And yet the threshold of my door
Is worn by the poor
Who thither come and freely get
Good words or meat.
Like as my parlour, so my hall

And kitchen's small
little buttery, and therein
A little bin,
Which keeps my little loaf of bread
Unchipp'd, unsped.
Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar
Make me a fire,
Close by whose living coal I sit
And glow like it.
All these and better thou dost send
Me to this end,
That I should render for my part
A thankful heart;
Which, fired by incense, I resign,
Wholly Thine,
But the acceptance must be,
My Christ, by Thee.