City Called Heaven

O all ye, who passe by, whose eyes and minde To worldly things are sharp, but to me blinde; To me, who took eyes that I might you finde:       Was ever grief like mine? The Princes of my people make a head Against their Maker: they do wish me dead, Who cannot wish, except I give them bread;       Was ever grief like mine? Without me each one, who doth now me brave, Had to this day been an Egyptian slave. They use that power against me, which I gave:       Was ever grief like mine?                          “The Sacrifice,” George Herbert