 | The Anatomie of Hvmors |  |
63
THE SPIRIT OF GRACE
To the wicked sinner.
Let the wicked forsake his wayes, and the vnrighteous
his owne imaginations, and returne vnto the Lord,
and our Godwill haue mercie vpon him.
Isay. 55. Cap.
O man the treasure of Gods glorious eye,
Thou art ingrate, and to thy selfe vnkinde;
Poore Caitiue wretch who sees and will not see,
Nor to eternall blisse will turne thy minde:
Rise sloathfull rise, forth of thy senslesse sleepe,
And for thy sinnes, go sigh, bewaile, and weepe.
Thou art ingrate, and to thy selfe vnkinde;
Poore Caitiue wretch who sees and will not see,
Nor to eternall blisse will turne thy minde:
Rise sloathfull rise, forth of thy senslesse sleepe,
And for thy sinnes, go sigh, bewaile, and weepe.
Heare how thy Saviour Iesus Christ doth call,
Come wearied and you burth'ned both to me,
Come, come, sayes he, I will refresh you all,
What sweeter words would thou haue said to thee?
Thou art that sheep, which wādring went astray,
Christ on his back will bring thee to thy way.
Come wearied and you burth'ned both to me,
Come, come, sayes he, I will refresh you all,
What sweeter words would thou haue said to thee?
Thou art that sheep, which wādring went astray,
Christ on his back will bring thee to thy way.
Thou sinfull man is so with sinne allur'd,
That pleasure of thy sinne doth hold thee fast;
Thy wit, thy will, thy reason all obscur'd,
And now behold, forgets thy God at last:
Thou art intrapp'd within ten thousand snares,
And blindlins rins to hell, thou never cares.
That pleasure of thy sinne doth hold thee fast;
Thy wit, thy will, thy reason all obscur'd,
And now behold, forgets thy God at last:
Thou art intrapp'd within ten thousand snares,
And blindlins rins to hell, thou never cares.
The flying motions of thy minde still burnes,
And forward goes, her furie to fulfill:
Youth and desire, whose raging humor turnes
To execute the horrour of their ill
With no les price, thē with thy soule is bought,
And whē all's got, they are but things of nought.
And forward goes, her furie to fulfill:
Youth and desire, whose raging humor turnes
[63]
With no les price, thē with thy soule is bought,
And whē all's got, they are but things of nought.
Both day and night thou doth thy selfe annoy,
To worke great mischiefe with thy owne misdeeds,
Lesse travaile farre would gaine eternall joy,
Which sweet Reward, all earthly paines exceeds:
But thou art mad, and in thy madnesse strange,
To quit thy God, and take the devill in change.
To worke great mischiefe with thy owne misdeeds,
Lesse travaile farre would gaine eternall joy,
Which sweet Reward, all earthly paines exceeds:
But thou art mad, and in thy madnesse strange,
To quit thy God, and take the devill in change.
At threatning ever senslesse, deafe, and dumb,
Thou never lookes on thy swift-running-Glasse;
Nor terror of the Judgement for to come,
But still thou thinks, thy pleasure can not passe:
All is deceit, and thou hast no regard,
Gods wrath at last, the sinner will reward.
Thou never lookes on thy swift-running-Glasse;
Nor terror of the Judgement for to come,
But still thou thinks, thy pleasure can not passe:
All is deceit, and thou hast no regard,
Gods wrath at last, the sinner will reward.
To pray to God: why? then thou art asham'd,
For sinne in thee shall suffer seandalies,
Thy rusty filth of conscience shall be blam'd,
Besides, thy soule hath spoil'd her faculties:
Thus doth the deuill so hold thee still aback,
Euen to the death, and then thy soule doth take.
For sinne in thee shall suffer seandalies,
Thy rusty filth of conscience shall be blam'd,
Besides, thy soule hath spoil'd her faculties:
Thus doth the deuill so hold thee still aback,
Euen to the death, and then thy soule doth take.
Alas poore soule, when God did first thee frame,
Most excellent, most glorious and perfit:
But since thou in that carnall body came,
Thy favour's lost, spoil'd is thy substance quite:
O that thou would repent, and turne in time,
God wil thee purge, & clange thee of thy crime.
Most excellent, most glorious and perfit:
But since thou in that carnall body came,
Thy favour's lost, spoil'd is thy substance quite:
O that thou would repent, and turne in time,
God wil thee purge, & clange thee of thy crime.
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God is a God of vengeance, yet doth stay,
And sparing, waites if thou thy life will mend
With harmlesse threatnings oft he doth assay,
And oft he doth sweet words of comfort send:
If thou repent, his anger will asswage:
If not, he will condemne thee in his rage.
And sparing, waites if thou thy life will mend
With harmlesse threatnings oft he doth assay,
And oft he doth sweet words of comfort send:
If thou repent, his anger will asswage:
If not, he will condemne thee in his rage.
The sonne of God, he for thy sinfull sake,
To saue thy soule, with care he did provide,
Mans filthy nature on him he did take,
That he both cold, and hunger might abide:
He many yeers on earth great wōders wrought,
Still persecute, and still his life was sought.
To saue thy soule, with care he did provide,
Mans filthy nature on him he did take,
That he both cold, and hunger might abide:
He many yeers on earth great wōders wrought,
Still persecute, and still his life was sought.
When as his time of bitter death drew neere,
The agony was so extreame he felt,
That when he pray'd vnto his Father deere,
In sweating drops of bloud he seem'd to melt:
Nail'd on the Crosse he suffer'd cruell smart,
vvhen as they pierc'd his hands, his feet, his hart.
The agony was so extreame he felt,
That when he pray'd vnto his Father deere,
In sweating drops of bloud he seem'd to melt:
Nail'd on the Crosse he suffer'd cruell smart,
vvhen as they pierc'd his hands, his feet, his hart.
Great torment more was laid, on him alone,
For thee and all mankind who will beleeue:
Thou was not bought, with siluer, gold, nor stone,
But Christ his life and precious bloud did giue:
O let not then his bloud be shed in vaine,
Whil'st thou hast time, turne to thy God againe.
For thee and all mankind who will beleeue:
Thou was not bought, with siluer, gold, nor stone,
But Christ his life and precious bloud did giue:
O let not then his bloud be shed in vaine,
Whil'st thou hast time, turne to thy God againe.
| The Anatomie of Hvmors | |