Classic Poem

Great God, whom wee with humble thoughts adore,
Eternall, infinite, almightie king,
Whose pallace heauen transcends, whose throne before
Archangells serue, and seraphins doe sing;
Of nought who wrought all that with wondring eyes
Wee doe behold within this spacious round,
Who mak'st the rockes to rocke, and stand the skies,
At whose command the horride thunders sound;
Ah! spare vs wormes, weigh not how wee, alas!
Euill to our selues, against thy lawes rebell;
Wash off those spots, which still in conscience' glasse,
Though wee bee loth to looke, wee see too well;
Deseru'd reuenge O doe not, doe not take:
If thou reuenge, what shall abide thy blow?
Passe shall this world, this world which thou didst make,
Which should not perish till thy trumpet blow.
For who is hee whom parents' sinne not staines,
Or with his owne offence is not defil'd?
Though iustice ruine threaten, iustice' raines
Let mercie hold, and bee both just and milde.
Lesse are our faults farre farre than is thy loue;
O! what can better seeme thy pow'r diuine,
Than those who euill deserue thy goodnesse proue,
And where thou thunder shouldst there faire to shine?
Then looke, and pittie, pittying forgiue
Vs guiltie slaues, or seruants, at thy will;
Slaues, if, alas! thou look'st how wee doe liue,
Or doing nought at all, or doing ill,
Of an vngratefull minde a foule effect.
But if thy gifts, which largely heretofore
Thou hast vpon vs pow'rd, thou doest respect,
Wee bee thy seruants, nay, than seruants more,
Thy children, yes, and children dearly bought;
But what strange chance vs of this lot bereaues?
Vile rebells, O! how basely are wee brought,
Whom grace made children, sinne hath now made slaues;
Sinne slaues hath made, but let thy grace sinne thrall,
That in our wrongs thy mercie may appeare:
Thy wisdome not so weake is, pow'r so small,
But thousand wayes they can make men thee feare.
O wisdome boundlesse! admirable grace!
Grace, wisdome, which doe dazell reason's eye,
And could heauen's king bring from his placelesse place,
On this infamous stage of woe to die,
To die our death, and with the sacred streame
Of bloud and water gushing from his side,
To expiate that sinne and deadly blame,
Contriued first by our first parents' pride?
Thus thy great loue and pittie, heauenly king,
Loue, pittie, which so well our losse preuents,
Could euen of euill it selfe all goodnesse bring,
And sad beginnings cheare with glad euents.
O loue and pittie! ill knowne of these times,
O loue and pittie! carefull of our blisse,
O goodnesse! with the hainous actes and crimes
Of this blacke age that almost vanquish'd is,
Make this excessiue ardour of thy loue
So warme our coldnesse, so our liues renew,
That wee from sinne, sinne may from vs remoue,
Wit may our will, faith may our wit subdue.
Let thy pure loue burne vp all mortall lust,
That band of ills which thralles our better part,
And fondly makes vs worship fleshly dust,
In stead of thee, in temple of our heart.
Grant, when at last the spright shall leaue this tombe,
This loathsome shop of sinne, and mansion blinde,
And call'd before thy royall seat doth come,
It may a sauiour, not a iudge, thee finde.