Meditat. IX. He healeth the broken hearted, and bindeth
up their wounds, Psal. 146.
My heart, O Lord, is broke (nor is't a fiction)
In pieces (Lord) and parcels in my breast,
Slit with thy pow'rfull thunder of affliction:
O heal it, Lord; till then I take no rest.
Ah, like poore tradesmen with full shops of wares,
Who cannot pay for all that they have took:
So is my heart a shop of many cares;
And I not able to discharge, I broke.
Binde up my wounds, O Lord: oh thou couldst finde
The linen thou shook'st from thee in thy grave;
And with those clothes, Lord, thou mayst gently binde
And spread me plaisters too: both which I crave.
Yet while thou bind'st my wounds up, oh I see
Thine fresh & bleeding, yawning more then mine.
Lord let thy wounds lie open still to me:
To heal my wounds, I'le lay them close to thine
