O
blessed body! Whither art thou thrown?
No
lodging for thee, but a cold hard stone?
So
many hearts on heart, and yet not one
Receive
thee?
Sure
there is room within our hearts good store;
For
they can lodge transgressions by the score:
Thousands
of toys dwell there, yet out of door
They
leave thee.
But
that which shows them large, shows them unfit.
Whatever
sin did this pure rock commit,
Which
holds thee now? Who hath indicted it
Of
murder?
Where
our hard hearts have took up stones to brain thee,
And
missing this, most falsely did arraign thee;
Only
these stones in quiet entertain thee,
And
order.
And
as of old, the law by heav’nly art,
Was
writ in stone; so thou, which also art
The
letter of the word, find’st no fit heart
To
hold thee.
Yet
do we still persist as we began,
And
so should perish, but that nothing can,
Though
it be cold, hard, foul, from loving man
Withhold
thee.
--George Herbert, Sepulchre
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