Classic Poem

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-washed 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 stamped 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.