Classic Poem

XII.
Lift up to heav'n, sad wretch, thy heavy spright,
What though thy sinnes thy due destruction threat?
The Lord exceedes in mercy as in might;
His ruth is greater, though thy crimes be great.
Repentance needes not feare the heav'ns just rod,
It stayes ev'n thunder in the hand of God.

With chearefull voyce to him then cry for grace,
Thy Faith, and fainting Hope, with Prayer revive;
Remorce for all that truely mourne hath place;
Not God, but men of him themselves deprive:
Strive then, and hee will help; call him, hee'll heare:
The Sonne needes not the Fathers fury feare.