February 29

TO Thee, O Lord, I confess, because if I would I cannot conceal: to Thee my very many, my very great, my very heinous sins. I profess also to grieve, as Thou knowest. But I need more grief: I plainly need it. . . . Do Thou, O Lord, give tears, give a fountain of waters to my head. Give the grace of tears. Drop down, ye heavens, from above, and bedew the dryness of my heart. Give me, O Lord, this grace. None were more welcome to me; neither riches, nor all the good things of this world were to be coveted in comparison of tears: tears such as Thou didst give to David of old, or Jeremiah, St. Peter, or St. Mary Magdalene. . . . If I may not water my couch, nor wash Thy feet: if I may not weep bitterly as Peter, plentifully as Jeremiah—(and yet, oh, that it might be even thus!) at least one or two little tears, which Thou mayst put into Thy bottle, and write in Thy book.

BISHOP ANDREWES

MY GOD, MY ALL