Song 21

Ah me! I have sinned so,
That the thought of it is my woe;
That my eyes
To the skyes,
Nor my prayer
Neither dare
I to lift, but here mourn below.
What therefore, had I best here to sit,
And lament for my faults in unfit
Sorrow? no;
Who doth so,
Spends his fears,
And his tears
All in vain any mercy to get.

My soul, mount thou then aloft,
And beseech him tha'st angred so oft
He easily can
Pardon man,
Being inclin'd
To be kind
With real contrition, and soft.
What though my many foul transgressions do
Exceed all the stars in our view;
Do overcome
Motes it'h Sun,
And surpass
Blades of grass?
His merits do exceed all these too.

His mercies exceed all these,
And all sins wherewith men him displease
Every sigh
He did give,
Every wound
That is found
On his body could a world release.
And therefore for shame if not for love,
(Yet love is all fear and shame above)
Let us shun
Hell, and run
In heavens way,
Whiles t'is day;
For from thence is no sad remove.