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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On Sin. |
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On Sin.
Sin is such an uncouth thing,I cannot well define it;
Death doth own it is his sting,
God bids me undermine it.
But it so cunning is, that when
I think to win the day,
It now comes over, under then,
And blows my baits away.
It seiz'd my Parents, and beguil'd
More learned men than I;
And when I think it is most milde,
I have most cause to fly.
At Church when I Devotion have,
It hovers o're my book,
And bids me think upon my Grave,
And off the other look.
Invisible it is, no doubt,
And felt before 'tis seen;
It subtilly can wheel about,
And like an Angel seem.
Good deeds I know accepted are,
And will be evermore;
But if I do not well, I fear
Sin lieth at the door;
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Doth lurk upon the scout,
That if my foot but tread awry,
My sins they finde me out.
If I with Brother break my word,
The fact may not be great;
But if I sin against the Lord,
Who shall for me intreat?
Many the faults are of my Youth,
I have been oft misled;
But they are blessed, saith the truth,
Whose sin is covered.
Wherefore, O Lord, I will confess
What in those days I did;
O grant thy merciful redress,
And let my sins be hid.
But I with heart and knee will bow,
In duty to adore thee;
Then recollect, and study how
To set my sins before me.
Shap'd in Iniquity I was,
A wretch of little worth:
In sin my Mothers womb, alas,
Conceiv'd, and brought me forth.
Lord, with thy grace enrich my heart,
Take out the filth therein;
Let fools pursue their idle Art,
To make a mock at sin.
Wo unto them their sins do draw
With ropes, them fast to tie;
That bind Iniquity their Law
With cords of Vanitie.
If sinners could but count their score,
They'd fear a future doom:
Let him that sinneth, sin no more,
Lest worser things shall come.
Whoso doth his transgression love,
Careless, or lose, or win,
He strangely doth himself approve
To be a slave to sin.
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Especially at Pray'r,
Lest my Petition on my knee,
Become to me a snare.
Surely the quintessence of sin,
Satan that Judas is;
He turns a murtherer, when in
Leads the poor Soul amiss,
And kills it with a kiss.
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