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Poems

By Thomas Philipott

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A divine Aspiration.
 
 
 


52

A divine Aspiration.

O thou who art the good Samaritan,
Whose hand, when sin both strips and woundeth, can
Shed such a balme upon us, 'twill ensure
Those wounds from rankling, and improve their cure.
Be, as thou art, the Embleme of the Vine,
And in my wounds powre in thy oyle, and wine.
And, as thou heretofore the rock didst part,
So with thy grace, Lord, cleave my stonie heart.
Naile to thy Crosse my sins, and let them have
A room to burie them within thy grave.
Thy stripes can heale my stripes, thy righteousnesse
My Scarlet sins with its white robe can dresse.
The water lav'd out at thy wounded side,
Will wash my guilt off, and that supple tide
Which from that sluce in such full streams did bleed.
My soule, even hunger-starv'd with sin, shall feed.
Thy wounds shall be my wounds, thy teares shall be
My teares; for, thy whole passion was for me.
Let thy all-saving merits but entwine
My tottering faith; thy heaven too shall be mine.