Am I thy gold? Or purse, Lord, for thy wealth; Whether in mine or mint refined for thee? I'm counted so, but count me o'er thyself, Lest gold washt face, and brass in heart I be. I fear my touchstone touches when I try Me, and my counted gold too overly. Am I new minted by thy stamp indeed? Mine eyes are dim, I cannot clearly see. Be thou my spectacles that I may read Thine image and inscription stampt on me. If thy bright image do upon me stand, I am a golden angel in thy hand Lord, make my soul thy plate: thine image bright Within the circle of the same enfoil. And on its brims in golden letters write Thy superscription in an holy style. Then I shall be thy money, thou my hoard: Let me thy Angel be, be thou my Lord.