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The Shorter Poems of Ralph Knevet

A Critical Edition by Amy M. Charles

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[44] Weakenes
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[44] Weakenes

(Oh Lord) how can I observe thy commands,
Since I have neither heart, nor hands,
I want both eares, and eyes:
The facultyes,
Of my decrepite soule, are so decayd,
That they can lend my will no ayde:
For those things, I would doe,
I can't reach too:
So infirme am I, and so overlayd.
Hereditary sinne stickes in my bones,
From many generations;
The Parents of us all
Were sensuall,

347

And fix'd on us, through their intemperance,
That epidemicall disease,
Which none can cure, but Hee,
Who on a Tree
Expir'd: Thus Life with Death in race aggrees.

The crosse was/the tree of life/ & the tree of the/forbidden fruite,/the tree of death/


(Lord) even thine owne Disciples, who beheld
Thy great miracles, and were fill'd
With thy instructions, they,
Oft went astray:
Thy Parables, they did not understand,
And though by power from thy hand,
They went to cast out Devills,
And heal all evills,
Yet alwayes could not performe thy command.
Though in their sight, Thou, not with many dishes,
But a few loaves, and fewer fishes,
Didst many thousands feede,
Yet want of bread,
Did them perplexe, bicause they faith did want:
Though They, with Thee were conversant;
Infants to Thee presented,
Them discontented,
Though Thou to such alone, thy realme dos't graunt.
On land, They Thee but a meere Man esteem'd;
At sea, They Thee a spirit deem'd:
They wanted faith t'espy
Thy Deitye,
By sea or land; though Thou, by sea, and land,
Thy Godhead shewd'st: yea though thy hand
By wonders did out acte,
Eves whole extracte,
Yet They, Thee a mere Prophet understand.

348

Yea, one of those, who at thy Table fed,
Who tooke from thee that mysticke bread,
Which being taken right,
Gives life, and light:
Even Hee, thy life betrayd, with a light kisse,
Unto thy cruell enemyes,
Hee sold (for thirty pence)
The quintessence
Of life, and the Elixir of true blisse.
How then thy Flocke was scatter'd, on each hand,
Like winde-driven dust, or flyeing Sand:
Yea, that stout Champion,
(Who stood upon
His valour most) most faintly thee deny'd:
A silly Mayde his weakenes try'd,
Made him to curse, and sweare,
And shrinke for feare;
His Faith the touch, and tryall would not bide.
I feare, and wonder, when I doe behold,
These fayleings in thy chosen fold,
Therefore at thy feet low,
My self I throwe:
Begging that I may bee thought acceptable,
To gather crummes beneath thy Table;
For to drinke of thy cup,
I dare not hope,
Bicause I am unworthy, and unable./