University of Virginia Library


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THE SORROVVFVLL SONG

Of A Converted Sinner.

I haue sinned, what shall I doe vnto thee? (O thou preseruer of mankinde.) Job. 7. Cap.

Led with the terrour of my grievous sinnes,
Before Gods mighty Throne I do compeare,
The horrour of my halfe-burst heart begins
To strike my sinfull soule with trembling feare.
Where shall I seeke secourse, or finde redresse?
Who can my fearefull tort'ring thoughts devorce?
Who can me comfort in my great distresse?
Or who can end the rage of my remorce?
I at compassions dore hath begg'd so long,
That I am hoarce, and yet can not be heard
Amids my woes, sad silence is my song,
From mirthlesse me, all pleasure is debard.
O time (vntimely time) why was I borne?
To liue sequestred solitar alone
Within a wildernesse of Cares forlorne,
Which grants no limit to my mart'ring Mone.
My mart'ring Mone with wofull words doth pierce
The aire, and next from hollow Caues rebounds
This æquiuox my sorrow doth rehearse,
And fills my eares with tributarie sounds.

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These sounds discends within my slaught'red hart,
And there transform'd in bleeding drops appeares
Next to my eyes drawen vp with cruell smart,
In water chang'd, and then distill'd in teares.
My teares which falls with force vpon the ground,
Jn numbers great of little sparks doth spread,
And in each spark my dolefull pictures found,
J in each picture tragick stories read.
I read Characters both of sinne and shame,
Drawne with the colours of my owne disgrace,
In figures black of impious defame,
Which painted stands in my disastred face.
I breathlesse faint with burthen of their woes,
Such is my paine it will not be expell'd,
Doe what I can, I can finde no repose,
All hope of help against me is rebell'd.
Gods mercie's great, I will expell dispaire
With praying still: I shall the heavens molest
Both night and day, vnto my God repaire,
He will me heare, and help my soule opprest.
The thought of hell makes all my haires aspire,
Where gnashing teeth sad sorows doth out-sound,
Where damned soules still boiles in flaming fire,
And where all endlesse torment doth abound.

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Had they but hope, it might appease their griefe,
That in ten thousand yeares they should be free:
But all in vaine, despaire without reliefe,
Gods word eternall, most eternall be.
When as our Christ in Judgement shall appeare,
Cloath'd with the Glory of his shining light,
And when each soule the trūpets sound shal heare,
They with their corps must com before Gods sight.
The Angels all, and happy troups of heaven,
Incirkled rounds theatred in each place,
A reck'ning sharp of eu'ry one is given
Before the Saints, and Gods most glorious face.
The sloathfull sinner then shall be asham'd,
Who in his life would neither mend nor mourne
To heare that sentence openly there proclaim'd:
Goe wicked to eternall fire, and burne.
And to his blessed company, he sayes,
The Angels to my Kingdome shall convoy
With endlesse mirth, because ye knew my wayes,
Come rest with me in never-ending joy.
O let me Lord be one of thy elect,
And once againe thy loue to me restore,
Let thy inspiring grace my spirit protect,
With thee to bide, and never part no more.

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Once call to minde how deerly I am bought,
When thy sweet corps was spred vpon the Rood,
Thy suff'ring torment, my saluation wrought
Thy paines, thy death, and shedding of thy blood.
O seeke not then my soule for to assaile
Against thy might: how can I make defence,
Thy bleeding death for me will naught auaile,
If thou should damne me for my lewd offence?
Try not thy strength, against me wretched worme,
I am but dust before thy furious winde,
Nor haue I force to bide thy angry storme,
Then rather farre, let me thy favour finde.
I Caitiue on this earth doth loure and creepe,
I prostrate fall before the heavens defaite,
On thee sweet Christ with mourning tears I weepe
To pittie this my weake and poore estate.
My poore estate which rob'd of all content,
And nothing else but dolours doth retaine,
The treasure of my griefe is never spent,
But still in secret sorrow I complaine.
Heare my complaint, mark wel my words, ô Lord,
Thou searcher of all hearts in euery kinde,
Thou to my true conuertion beare record,
And sweepe away my sinnes out of thy minde.

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I sacrifice to thee my Saviour sweet,
And patient God who gaue me leaue to liue
My sighing-teares, and bleeding heart contreit,
I haue naught else nor ritcher gift to giue.
Thou God the Father, thou created me,
And made all things obedient to mans will:
Thou sonne of God to saue my soule didst die,
And Holy ghost thou sanctifiest me still.
Thou Father, Sonne, thou holy Ghost divine,
On my poore soule, let your ritch glory shine.
FINIS.