Classic Poem

A Confession of a Sinner, acknowledging the misery of human frailtie.

Celestiall Lord, Creator of this ALL,
Embracer, Prop, and Ruler of the same.
Whose vnseene Eye beholds the generall,
And singly seest at once this double Frame,
O vaile that Christall-cleere all-seeing eye,
On vtter-darknesse, that, Lord that am I.

Mine Intellect is darke darke my soules sight:
My body darke (darke dungeon of my soule)
Is opposite (for darknesse) to thy light,
What can be darker, or more vgly foule?
Thus darknesse striuing much more darke to be,
(Hell being too light) infus'd itselfe in me.

O Iustice Sunne with Taper-pointed beames,
Dart through this Darknesse, open loopes for light,
By which the influence of thy lights leames.
Through my darke soule may be dispersed quight:
For what is that which extreame darknes cleares
But extreame light of lights, when it appeares?

Where extreame darknesse harbours, there is Hell.
In me (deare Lord of Heauen) that hell is plac't,
My heart (hard hart) wherein all horrors dwell,
With vexing thoughts (like Fiends) away doth waft:
My Conscience quite confounded with my misse
Is lowest Hell, where highest Anguish is.

Descend sweet Christ, and harrow with thy Crosse
This hell of Conscience, free my soule from thence;
It is thine owne (deare Lord) it is thy losse,
If it doe perish through my sinnes offence:
Why, sinne is nothing: then for thing of nought
Lose not my soule (poore purchase) dearly boght.

In Deaths dark shade (o'er shadowed with my sinne
Vpon the black pit-brinck of deepe Despaire)
I lye, (deare Lord) halfe out, but more halfe in;
Help, help, ├┤ help, Lord heare, Lord heare my prayer
Now, now, ├┤ now, if euer, help me now,
I sincke, I sincke, help ere I sincke too low.

Remember Lord, Lord call to minde againe
The drops (strange drops) of Water mixt with Bloud
Which from thy paine-prest Body ranne amaine.
What time on ground it lay in pensiue moode:
If then thou praid'st that Cup might passe from thee,
I well may pray let this Cup passe from mee.

A Cup of cares, confected by sowre sinne,
Baning my Soule with bitter operation:
Let this Cup passe before I doe beginne;
Least it effect my crazed soules damnation
O thou that felt'st fraile mans infirmitie,
Respect fraile Me, else in despaire I die.

Whose Faith (too like a feather in the winde)
Is tossed with the least temptations blast:
With doublings daunted; when the faithfull finde
A calme in conscience till such stormes are past:
But I (vile wretch) am tossed to and fro,
With eu'ry Storme that rise, or Blast that blow.

See Lord (ah see) see, see, how all my Veynes
Do pant with paine, through sense of my misdeedes:
Behold my Heart, wherein all sorrow raignes,
(Griefe-wounded heart) behold it how it bleedes:
O poure therein thy precious Balmes of grace,
That from thy wounded Heart doe runne apace.

Where's Much forgiu'n, Loue must there be much;
Forgiue me Much, much more shall be my loue:
I haue Much to forgiue, no sinner such;
My Sinne surmounting, Loue shall be aboue:
Forgiue me then, and I in Loue will striue
To match that more then Much thou dost forgiue.

Be thou for me vnto the Old of dayes ,
My Daysman so, to stay his angers heate;
That for thy sake he would vouchsafe to raise
His vengeance siege, which my Soules wrack doth threat
O tel him to his Grace, I (weakling) yeeld,
And giue him praise and glory of the Field.

O pray him bend his pursance on the proud,
Whose brazen Necks will rather breake then bowe:
I, creeping on my knees, doe seeke for shrowde
Till Tempests of his fury ouer-blow:
And like a Spaniell at his Maisters threat,
In humble wise fall prostrate at his feete

With eyes vp-lifted slowly by degrees,
And lifted so, are throwne downe straight againe
With face confounded on his humbled knees,
Inuoking mercy, yet doth mute remaine:
O so, euen so, doe I (poore wretched I)
At foote but of his Foote-stoole crowching lye.

If this may moue, and mouing may prouoke
Thy sans-beginning Sire in Loue to stay
Of his iust vengeance the resistlesse stroke,
(A touch whereof doth Rockes to pouder bray)
I will ascribe the praise (├┤ Christ) to thee
Sith for thy sake alone, he spareth me.

My strength's not stony, nor my flesh yet brasse;
O no, then weaknesse much more weake it is;
Apt still to fall, more brittle farre then glasse;
Compos'd of that, that's more then most amisse:
O how vnable then am I to beare
His heauy vengeance stroke that rocks doth teare?

With hands of Mercie stay my sincking Soule,
Which were, in mercy, mercilesly wounded,
For me (vile wretch) and for my trespasse foule,
That Grace might o'er abound where Sin abounded
They are not shortned since they racked were
For Sinne , that Sinne might sinnelesse so appeare.

With those same hands (deare Lord) my Soule sustain
Opprest with Poise that made thy man-hood groane:
My load's as great, though farre lesse be my paine,
Whose sinne's as great as all the worlds , alone:
Then Worlds of Sin when on my backe I beare,
What meruell is't I faint, if not despaire?

Froth of Infirmitie , and Weaknesse skumme
I am no other: how then should I beare
The heauy sentence of true Iustice doome
If to this Load of Sinne it added were?
None but a God and Man can beare that waight,
Sith God & Man bow'd vnder neath that fraight.

I am farre spent, ├┤ be not farre from me,
I panting labour neere the latest gaspe
My Soule dismai'd, not knowing where to flee,
With hands of Hope (wan Hope ) at thee doth graspe.
Fasten their fingers, giue them strength to hold,
As Ancors sure, in roughest Tempests would.

Kind Lord, sole comfort, hope of each poore wretch,
With Eyes conuerting Peter , looke on me:
Those glittring Sunnes their beames of comfort, stretch
To cursed'st sinners if they contrite be:
Then, let those sacred Sun beames gild with grace
My blacke dispalring Soule, and rue her case.