The God of love my shepherd is,
And he that doth me feed;
While he is mine, and I am his,
What can I want or need?
He leads me to the tender grass,
Where I both feed and rest;
Then to the streams that gently pass;
In both I have the best.
Or if I stray, he doth convert
And bring my mind in frame;
And all this not for my desert,
But for his holy name.
Yea, in death's shady black abode
Well may I walk, not fear:
For thou art with me; and thy rod
To guide, thy staff to bear.
Nay, thou dost make me sit and dine,
Even in my enemies' sight:
My head with oil, my cup with wine
runs over day and night.
Surely thy sweet and wondrous love
Shall measure all my days;
And as it never shall remove,
So neither shall my praise.
--George Herbert
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