A soueraigne Salue against Sinne and Despaire out of S. Augustine

DEare Lord, when sinfull thoughts doe me assaile
to thy deare Wounds then let me hye with speed;
When burning lust against my thoughts preuaile,
quench it, by minding me how long they bleede!

In all Extreames I finde no Meane so good
as thy wide Wounds to keepe my Soule still whole
They cannot dye that drown'd are in thy bloud;
for, that is Aqua vitae to the Soule!

Thy Death is my desert; then doe I not
lacke merits; sith thy Death destroyes my Sinne:
Thy Mercy is my merit; and, my Lot
is glories Crowne, through my firme hope therein:

For, if thy grace be great; then is it cleare
my glory shall be great: and, the more pow'r
Thou hast to saue, the lesse I ruine feare:
for, Grace abounding, makes Loues hope secure.

Yet I acknowledge mine iniquities;
and, Conscience, with her thousand Witnesses,
Accuse me of extreame impieties;
yet will I hope of mercy ne'erthelesse:

For, where Sinne hath abounded, there hath grace
abounded more; so, loue enflaming in
The grieu'd delinquent: who doth enterlace
sweete teares of Ioy, with bitter Teares for Sinne.

For, who dispaires, God, vtterly denyes;
deny his Attributes, himselfe deny:
His Iustice we prouoke; his mercies rise
but from him-selfe, who is selfe-Clemencie!

Then, let my thoughts still murmure while they will,
and aske, why such a Sinner grace should seeke?
Yet in firme hope I will continue still,
sith he hath promised that cannot breake.

Who can doe what he will; and he will doe
what he hath sworne: which is; he will make whole
The broken Heart for sinne, and grace it too;
yea, help contrition in the willing Soule.

My Sinnes (though great) then, me no whit dismay,
when his deare Death I minde: for, all my Crimes
Can ne'er o'er-match his Mercies, if I pray
for grace, to hope in his sure help betimes.

His Thorny Crowne, and Nayls, that him transpierc'd
assures my hope that He and I are One:
Which haue his Iudgemeuts gainst my sinnes reuerst,
if I but grieue for what I haue misdone.

Longius hath clear'd the sad coast to his Heart
with his fell Speare; that (kinde to me) made way:
There rest I now in Ioy and ioyfull smart,
of safety sure, while there, in hope, I stay.

Vpon the Crosse he doth his Armes extend,
t'embrace the Contrite: then, betweene those armes,
Deuoutly will I throw me till mine end;
so, safe I shall be there, from foes, and harmes.

He bow'd his Head, before Death brake his Heart,
to kisse his Louers with the kisse of Peace;
Then, still Ile kisse him: so, shall I depart
in peace to him that is my Sinnes release.

Sweet Christ embrace me then, and kisse me till
I dye to liue, to clip and kisse thee still.