To George Herbert
Thy quill, a quiet flame, did pierce the air,
With words that bend the heart to holy awe,
A priestly poet, clad in humble prayer,
Who saw in dust the gleam of heaven’s law.
Thy lines, like incense, rise to God’s high throne,
Each stanza wrought with grace’s tender strain,
A temple built of verse, Thy love alone,
Where broken souls find balm for every pain.
The Word was thy true sword, thy muse’s guide,
To carve a path through sin’s entangling mire,
With faith thou didst in simple rhymes abide,
And bid us see the stars through earthly fire.
O Herbert, bard of Christ’s sweet yoke, we sing,
Thy praise, a bell that through the ages rings.