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Poem by John Donne
Deign at my hands this crown of prayer and praise, Weaved in my lone devout melancholy, Thou which of good hast, yea, art treasury, All changing unchanged Ancient of days. But do not with a vile crown of frail bays Reward my Muse's white sincerity; But what Thy thorny crown gain'd, that give me, A crown of glory, which doth flower always. The ends crown our works, but Thou crown'st our ends, For at our ends begins our endless rest. The first last end, now zealously possess'd, With a strong sober thirst my soul attends. 'Tis time that heart and voice be lifted high; Salvation to all that will is nigh.
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