Richard Crashaw (1612 - 1649 / England)
THY restless feet now cannot go
For us and our eternal good,
As they were ever wont. What though
They swim, alas! in their own flood?
Thy hands to give Thou canst not lift,
Yet will Thy hand still giving be;
It gives, but O, itself's the gift!
It gives tho' bound, tho' bound 'tis free!
Read poems about / on: swimming
Poet Other Poems
- A Hymn to the Name and Honour of the Adm...
- A Song
- An Epitaph upon Husband and Wife
- An Epitaph upon Husband and Wife Who die...
- But Men Loved Darkness rather than Light
- Charitas Nimia; or, The Dear Bargain
- Christ Crucified
- Divine Epigrams: On the Baptized Ethiopi...
- Divine Epigrams: On the Miracle of the M...
- Divine Epigrams: Samson to his Delilah
- Divine Epigrams: To our Lord, upon the W...
- In the Holy Nativity of our Lord
- Music's Duel
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.