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Divine Poems

Written By Thomas Washbourne
 
 

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Matth. 26. 39.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


48

Matth. 26. 39.

O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup passe from me: neverthelesse not as I wil, but as thou wilt.

Lord, what a bitter draught this was,
Which made thee pray
Thy Father thrice that it might passe
From thee away?
'Twas deadly poison fil'd the glasse.
Thy Fathers wrath, and our sins were
Both in one cup,
Who then could blame thee for to fear
To drink it up,
Or pray it might not thee come neer?
Yet such thy love to man was, and
Thy duty to
Thy Father, thou wouldst not withstand
His wil, but do
What e're it pleas'd him to command.
Though it displeasing were to thine
As flesh and blood,
Thou saidst, Thy wil be done, not mine.
I think it good
This cup no longer to decline,
My God, it is my purpose now
Sin to detest,

49

And never more it room allow
within my brest,
Since with't thy cup did overflow.
But if to me dispos'd thou art
Some of the gall
And bitter potion to impart,
I'l take it all,
And pledge my Lord with all my heart.
And good cause why, since I am sure,
That on the Crosse
Thou drank'st the dregs, I may endure
A gentle dose,
'Twil not my corr'sive be, but cure.