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16. On Accounts.

Great God! when I would cast up the accounts
Of all my sins, their number far surmounts,

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Th'hairs on my head, the Heavens Starry bands,
Earths blades of grass, the Sea beleag'ring sands.
Lord, onely thou the great Arithmetitian,
Canst sum them up; let Christ be my Physician,
His merits are infinite, with which he stops
The mouth of Justice, those sanguineous drops
That trickled down his wounds is balm to heal
My soul; for pardon I through him appeal
To thee, dear Lord, 'tis Mercy that I crave,
Thy saving Mercy let thy servant have: