Classic Poem

Hearken, O God! unto a wretche's cryes
Who low dejected at thy footstoole lyes.
Let not the clamour of my heynous Sin
Drowne my requests: which strive to enter in
At those bright Gates, which alwayes open stand
To such as begg remission at thy hand.

Too well I know, if Thou in justice deale
I can nor pardon ask, nor yet appeale:
To my hoarse voyce Heav'n will no audience grant,
But deaf as brasse, and hard as Adamant
Beat back my words; Therfore I bring to Thee
A gratious Advocate to plead for mee.

What though my leaprous Soule no Jordan can
Recure? nor floods of the lav'd Ocean
Make cleane? yet from my Saviour's bleeding Side
Two large and med'cinable Rivers glide:
Lord wash mee where those Streames of Life abound,
And new Bethesdaes flow from ev'ry wound.

If I this pretious lather may obtaine,
I shall not then dispaire for any staine:
I need no Gilead's balme, nor oyle, nor shall
I for the Purifying Hysop call:
My spotts will vanish in His purple flood,
And Crimson there grow white, though wash't in blood.

See Lord! with broken heart, and bended knee
How I addresse my humble suit to Thee.
O give that Suit admittance to thine eares
Which floates to thee, not in my words, but Teares.
And let my sinfull Soule this mercy crave
Before I fall into the silent grave.