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GReat God, whom we with humbled Thoughts adore,
Eternall, Infinite, Almighty King,
Whose Dwellings Heaven transcend, whose Throne before
Archangels serve, and Seraphines do sing;
Of nought who wrought all that with wondring Eyes
We do behold within this various Round,
Who makes the Rocks to rocke, to stand the Skies,
At whose command Clouds peales of Thunder sound▪
Ah! spare us Wormes, weigh not how we alas
(Evill to our selves) against thy Laws rebell,
Wash off those spots which still in Conscience Glasse
(Though we be loath to look) we see too well.
Deserv'd Revenge, oh do not do not take,
If thou revenge who shall abide thy Blow?
Passe shall this World, this World which thou didst make,
Which should not perish till thy Trumpet blow:
What Soule is found whom Parents Crime not staines?
Or what with its own Sins defil'd is not?
Though Iustice Rigor threaten, yet her Raines
Let Mercy guide, and never be forgot.
Lesse are our Faults far far than is thy Love,
O what can better seeme thy Grace divine,
Than they who plagues deserve, thy Bounty prove,
And where thou show'r mayst Vengeance, there to shine?
Then look and pitty, pittying forgive
Us guilty Slaves, or Servants now in thrall;
Slaves, if alas thou look how we do live,
Or doing ill, or doing nought at all?
Of an ungratefull Mind a foule Effect;
But if thy Gifts which largely heretofore
Thou hast upon us pour'd thou dost respect,
We are thy Servants nay, than Servants more,
Thy Children, yes, and Children dearely bought,
But what strange Chance us of this Lot bereaves?
Poore worthless Wights how lowly are we brought,
Whom Grace once Children made, Sin hath made Slaves?
Sin hath made Slaves, but let those Bands Grace breake,
That in our Wrongs thy Mercies may appeare,
Thy Wisdome not so meane is, Pow'r so weake,
But thousand waies they can make Worlds thee feare.
O Wisdome boundless! O miraculous Grace!
Grace, Wisdome which make winke dimme Reasons Eye,
And could Heavens King bring from his placeless Place,
On this ignoble Stage of Care to dye:
To dye our Death, and with the sacred Streame
Of Bloud and Water gushing from his Side,
To make us cleane of that contagious Blame,
First on us brought by our first Parents Pride.
Thus thy great Love and Pity (heavenly King)
Love, Pity which so well our Loss prevent,
Of Evill it selfe (loe) could all Goodness bring,
And sad beginning cheare with glad event.
O Love and Pity! ill known of these Times,
O Love and Pity! carefull of our need,
O Bounties! which our horrid Acts and Crimes
(Grown numberless) contend neare to exceed.
Make this excessive ardour of thy love,
So warme our Coldness, so our Lifes renew,
That we from Sin, Sin may from us remove.
Wisdome our Will, Faith may our Wit subdue.
Let thy pure Love burne up all worldly Lust,
Hells candid Poyson killing our best part,
Which makes us joy in Toyes, adore fraile Dust
Instead of Thee, in Temple of our Heart.
Grant when at last our Soules these Bodies leave,
Their loathsome Shops of sin and Mansions blind,
And Doome before thy Royall Seat receive▪
A Saviour more than Judge they thee may find.