One of the holy sonnets. John Donne.

 

Blessed so unimagined

A child of God that’s me.

And dirt piled up, a bitter cup.

Made right at His sore Tree.

The Lord, foreseeing everything

And loving to the most.

Transfigured me and washed up

By means of Holy Ghost.

A wretch, much studied.

But hiding 

Hiding in those books.

From censure, 

Wrath, ignominy

And tons of dirty looks.