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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The Thanksgiving. |
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The Thanksgiving.
Come, let's adore the gracious handThat brought us to this light,
That gave his Angels strict command
To be our Guard this night.
When we laid down our weary heads,
And sleep seal'd up our eye,
They stood and watch'd about our beds,
To let no harm come nigh.
Now we are up, they still go on,
And guide us through the day;
They never leave their charge alone,
Whate're besets our way.
And, oh my Soul, how many snares
Lie spread before our feet?
In all our hopes, in all our cares,
Some dangers still we meet.
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And on our weakness win;
Sometimes our selves our ruine make,
And we o'retake the sin.
O save us, Lord, from all those darts
That seek our Souls to slay;
Save us from us, and our false hearts,
Lest we our selves betray.
Save us, O Lord, to thee we cry,
From whom all Blessings spring;
We on thy Grace alone rely,
Alone thy glory sing.
Glory to thee, eternal Lord,
Thrice blessed Three in One,
Thy Name at all times be ador'd,
Till time it self be done.
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