University of Virginia Library

[17] The Sute

Lord winnowe mee from the vile dust
Of vaine desires:
Refine mee from my drosse, and rust,
In gentle fires,
Let mee not perish in the day
Of thy displeasure:
But so prepare mee, that I may
Become thy treasure:
Bruise mee not with an iron rodde,
Oh breake mee not,
That am a despicable clod,
An earthen pot.
A vessell of iniquitye,
And fitt to bee
A vassall to Hells Tyrannie,
If it please Thee.
But Thou oh Lord dos't not desire
A Sinners death:
Nor to consume those in thine ire,
Whom thou gavs't breath.
Conversion not confusion, Thou
Delightest in.
Thou quicke to mercy art, but slow
To punish sinne.
Wee day by day doe Thee incense,
Yet Thou dost still
Abound in thy beneficence,
As if thy will,
To workes of mercy were confin'd:
Yea even as though
Thou could'st not any arrow find,
To fitt thy bowe:
Yet the whole World's thine Armarye;
Both sea, and land,
Yea Heaven and all, with armes supply
Thy dreadfull hand.
The Angells thy Militia are,
Sinners thy foes,
Yet Thou ar't slow to denounce warre,
Or fight 'gainst those:
Thine Angells sinn'd but once, yet were
Undone for ever:
But Man seven times a day may erre,
Yet perish never.
Why shouldst Thou thus thy glory mixe,
With pride and lust?
Or favours upon statues fixe
Of clay and dust?
Man of two natures doth consist;
For Thou (oh Lord)
These diffr'ent substances didst twiste,
In the fraile corde
Of humane essence, that Man might
Thy viceroy prove
On Earth; But bee thy Psalmist bright
In heaven above:
(Lord) polish with thy supreme grace,
My better part:
Let not vaine desires it deface,
Or get the start
Of my incorruptible love:
Then I shall here
Thy psalmes endite; and bee above,
Thy Quirister.