Prison-Pietie or, Meditations Divine and Moral. Digested into Poetical Heads, On Mixt and Various Subjects. Whereunto is added A Panegyrick to The Right Reverend, and most Nobly descended, Henry, Lord Bishop of London. By Samuel Speed, Prisoner in Ludgate, London |
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Jeremiah's Lamentation For Jerusalem's Desolation. |
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Jeremiah's Lamentation For Jerusalem's Desolation.
Consider, Lord, the wretched, poor, and vile;A glorious City! no, sh'as lost that stile;
She and her joys are under an Exile.
Behold, and see;
Thou, Lord, as in a Wine-press, hast her trod,
And crush'd her Virgins with an Iron Rod:
Sin was the cause; but, Lord, thou art her God.
May it please thee,
To wipe away her Tears that do pour down,
Cause thou that art the Comforter, dost frown;
O let repentant Tears offences drown,
And send relief.
O all ye passing by, behold her sorrow;
Jerusalem, Jerusalem would borrow
Tears of ye all; but none will say, Good morrow;
The more's her grief.
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Whilst she her self for want thereof doth pine.
Jerusalem, was ever grief like thine?
Behold, and weep;
She that was call'd the Joy of all the Earth,
Is Desolation now, and nothing worth:
Her sorrows to her Enemies are mirth.
Her Lovers sleep.
The apples of her eyes do finde no rest,
Their streams o'reflow the flood-gates; she's distrest,
And sorrow doth become a constant guest:
Doth never fail.
Her old and young ones, both lie on the ground;
Her Priests, and Prophets, thou dost deeply wound;
Terrours on ev'ry side beset her round
On hill and dale.
Wormwood besots, she seems as she were drunk;
This angry tempest hath her treasure shrunk;
She that was full of people, now is sunk,
And desolate.
Her Soul's remov'd from any glimpse of Peace;
Prosperity is fled; there doth increase
But sad effects of groans, which never cease;
Such is her fate.
They that on Delicates were wont to feed,
In Dust and Ashes now lament their need:
Jerusalem is bow'd, and broke indeed;
But God is just.
The Enemies they did her Maidens finde,
And ravished; her Young men forc'd to grinde:
Consider, Lord, how she with grief hath pinde
Upon the dust.
Remember, Lord, her Wormwood and her Gall;
Oh hear her sad complaints, and ease her thrall:
Lord, hear my Pray'rs and Tears, for her I call,
In mercy see.
Oh, lay that darksome Cloud from off thy face;
One smile will say, thou think'st upon her case:
Oh hear, and help her, Lord, of thy good grace,
Thou glorious Three.
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Behold her scorners, how they mock and nod;
In mercy towards her withdraw thy Rod.
Lord, let her cry
Unto thee fly,
And let her not
Be quite forgot,
As if, O Lord, she never were,
That she may sing
Of thee her King,
That unto thee none may compare.
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