"There is enough in Thee to dry Oceans of Ink..."

I stumbled across these two sonnets by George Herbert the other day and found them simply gorgeous. In the first one, Herbert wonders where the burning love for God has gone and why are not all poems written for Him. This sentiment is continued in the second: all creation sings His praise and there is more beauty in God than man's poor pen could ever express. Why, then, do men write of women and praise their beauty which pales so greatly in comparison? 
My brief little explanations most certainly do not do justice to these poems. But I hope when you read them you will enjoy them just as much as I did.

Sonnet I 
My God, where is that ancient heat towards thee, 
Wherewith whole showls of Martyrs once did burn, 
Besides their other flames? Doth Poetry 
Wear Venus livery? only serve her turn? 
Why are not Sonnets made of thee? and layes 
Upon thine Altar burnt? Cannot thy love 
Heighten a spirit to sound out thy praise 
As well as any she? Cannot thy Dove 
Out-strip their Cupid easily in flight? 
Or, since thy wayes are deep, and still the fame, 
Will not a verse run smooth that bears thy name! 
Why doth that fire, which by thy power and might 
Each breast does feel, no braver fuel choose 
Than that, which one day, Worms, may chance refuse? 

Sonnet II

Sure Lord, there is enough in thee to dry 
Oceans of Ink ; for, as the Deluge did 
Cover the Earth, so doth thy Majesty : 
Each Cloud distills thy praise, and doth forbid 
Poets to turn it to another use. 
Roses and Lillies speak thee ; and to make 
A pair of Cheeks of them, is thy abuse. 
Why should I Womens eyes for Chrystal take? 
Such poor invention burns in their low mind, 
Whose fire is wild, and doth not upward go 
To praise, and on thee Lord, some Ink bestow. 
Open the bones, and you shall nothing find 
In the best face but filth, when Lord, in thee 
The beauty lies, in the discovery.