 | A Divine Centvrie of Spirituall Sonnets |  |
Sonnet. LVII.
[Through Sathans malice and my nature weake]
Through Sathans malice and my nature weake,When in my soule I finde my faith is deade,
Those sacred schoedes of comfort, then I reade
Whose powrefull words the gates of hell can breake:
Then faith in kindleth fresh, and then I wreake
My wrath on Sathan, and vpon his head
Mee thinkes (like Michaell or Saint George) I treade:
Whilst hee that earst against the Sunne did beake
His foreswolne poysnous bulke, doth vanquishd lie
In his owne filth: and I (which lately was
Like to bee swallowd by mine enemie)
Now safely like a conquerour may passe.
Behold my Captaines puissance, who did this
To ridde my soule from hell, and ransome his.
| A Divine Centvrie of Spirituall Sonnets | |