Classic Poem

My Reformation

If all the span
Of dayes,
Lent heer to man,
To Pilgrm in,
And in times Kalender enrowld,
God should but skan:
What might he find, in waight, and measure,
But pounds, and pecks, of this, and t'other evil:
Noe one, markt to his praise,
But spent, or sould,
For proffit, or in pleasure,
By whole-sale
Unto Sin:
And by retail,
Unto the Flesh, the world, the Divel.

If the immence
Goodnes
Did not dispence
It's power, upon
Our frailties, that like Clay, or glass,
Makes noe defence
Gainst Potters, or the Glasiers skill:
What could we promise, to withstand such loss:
Or miseries redress,
Unless, (alas)
His Sonn, he let them kill,
Soe, himself t'pay
That, by one
Which one all lay,
And t'explat, through greef and Cross.

Heer, am I lost
Soe small
Yet soe much cost:
Wherin, the debt
Would well nigh drive into despaire,
Had not the most
Of me been dross, and soe unfitt,
To take the stampe, of any grace, or good,
Until, He that made all
Did too, repaire
My crackt estate, and knitt,
By His paine
Wherin mett
To sett againe
That Breach for Balme, His pretious Blood.

Captives yea know
Are led
Into much woe,
And sufferance,
Until, by ransom they get fee
Again, and soe
Noe more are bound, but to those wayes.
Wher lies my bond, and obligation, then,
To sin was cancelled,
But stil with thee
My Saviour, whose Bayes
O're Deaths sting,
Hel, and Chance,
A Conquest Bring,
To sett me at full Libety again.

Not what I will
To speak,
Or doe my fill:
As appetite,
Not reasons fescue, shall direct:
But with that skill,
Thy Gratious mercies shall infuse,
To make me truly censible of those:
Whilst I, the fetters break,

And doe detect
That, which did me abuse,
My youg years,
Which were light,
Too voyd of fears:
That soe, I might the rest for Thee compose.