Classic Poem

Of deep secrets that David here did sing,
Of mercy, of faith, of frailty, of grace,
Of God's goodness, and of justifying,
The greatness did so astone himself a space,
As who might say: " Who hath expressed this thing?
I, sinner, I! What have I said, alas?
That God's goodness would within my song entreat
Let me again consider and repeat."

And so he doth, but not expressed by word.
But in his heart he turneth and poiseth
Each word that erst his lips might forth afford.
He points, he pauseth, he wonders, he praiseth
The mercy that hides of justice the sword,
The justice that so his promise complisheth
For his words' sake to worthiless desert
That gratis his graces to men doth depart.

Here hath he comfort when he doth measure
Measureless mercies to measureless fault,
To prodigal sinners infinite treasure,
Treasure termless that never shall default.
Yea, when that sin shall fail and may not dure,
Mercy shall reign, 'gain whom shall no assault
Of hell prevail, by whom, lo, at this day,
Of heaven gates remission is the key.
And when David hath pondered well and tried
And seeth himself not utterly deprived
From light of grace that dark of sin did hide,
He finds his hope so much therewith revived
He dare importune the Lord on every side
(For he know'th well to mercy is ascribed
Respectless labour), importune, cry, and call;
And thus begin'th his song therewithal.