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Come, bring thy gift. If blessings were as slow As men's returns, what would become of fools? What hast thou there? a heart? but is it pure? Search well and see; for hearts have many holes. Yet one pure heart is nothing to bestow: In Christ two natures met to be thy cure. O that within us hearts had propagation, Since many gifts do challenge many hearts! Yet one, if good, may title to a number; And single things grow fruitful by deserts. In public judgements one may be a nation, And fence a plague, while others sleep and slumber. But all I fear is lest thy heart displease, As neither good, nor one: so oft divisions Thy lusts have made, and not thy lusts alone; Thy passions also have their set partitions. These parcel out thy heart: recover these, And thou mayst offer many gifts in one. There is a balsam, or indeed a blood, Dropping from heav'n, which doth both cleanse and close All sorts of wounds; of such strange force it is. Seek out this All-heal, and seek no repose, ntil thou find and use it to thy good: Then bring thy gift; and let thy hymn be this; Since my sadness Into gladness Lord thou dost convert, O accept What thou hast kept, As thy due desert. Had I many, Had I any (For this heart is none), All were thine And none of mine: Surely thine alone. Yet thy favour May give savour To this poor oblation; And it raise To be thy praise, And be my salvation.

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