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I.

[Lord, I have sinn'd, and the black number swells]

Lord, I have sinn'd, and the black number swells
To such a dismal sum,
That should my stony heart and eyes,
And this whole sinful trunk a flood become,
And run to tears, their drops could not suffice
To count my score,
Much less to pay:
But Thou, my God, hast blood in store,
And art the patron of the poore.
Yet since the balsam of Thy blood,
Although it can, will do no good,
Unless the wounds be cleans'd with tears before;
Thou in Whose sweet but pensive face

41

Laughter could never steal a place,
Teach but my heart and eyes
To melt away,
And then one drop of balsam will suffice.
Amen.