The Stone

Lord God! this was a stone,

As hard as any one

Thy laws in Nature framed:

’Tis now a springing well,

And many drops can tell,

Since it by Art was tamed.

My God! my heart is so,

’Tis all of flint, and no

Extract of tears will yield:

Dissolve it with thy fire,

That something may aspire,

And grow up in my field.

Bare tears I’ll not entreat,

But let thy Spirit’s seat

Upon those waters be:

Then I, new formed with light,

Shall move without all night

Of eccentricity.

                —Thomas Vaughan  (1621-1666)