University of Virginia Library

THE PRAIER OF JEREMIAH, bewailing the captivitie of the people.

In the fift Chap. of his Lamentations.

Cal unto mind oh mightie Lord, the wrongs we daily take,
Consider and behold the same, for thy great mercies sake.
Our lands & our inheritance, meere strangers do possesse,
The alients in our houses dwel, and we without redresse.
We now (alas) are fatherlesse, & stil pursude with hate,
Our mourning mothers nowe remaine in wofull widdowes state.
We buy the water which we drink, such is our grievous want,
Likewise the wood even for our use, that we our selves did plant.
Our neckes are subject to the yoke, of persecutions thrall,
We wearied out with cruell toile, and find no rest at all:
Afore time we in Egypt land, and in Assyria served,
For food our hunger to sustaine, least that we should have sterved:
Our fathers which are dead & gone, have sinned wondrous sore,
And we now scourg'd for their offence, ah, woe are we therefore.
Those servile slaves which bondmen be, of them in fear we stand,
Yet no man doth deliver us, from cruel Caitives hand.
Our livings we are forc'd to get, in perils of our lives,
The drie and barren wildernesse therto by danger drives.
Our skins be scortcht as though they had, bin in an oven dride,
With famine, and the penury, which here we doo abide.
Our wives and maides defloured are, by violence and force,
On Sion, and in Juda land, sans pity or remorce.
Our kings by cruel enimies, with cordes are hanged up,
Our gravest, sage and ancient men, have tasted of that cup.
Our yoong men they have put to sword, not one at al they spare,
Our litle boyes upon the tree, sans pitie hanged are.
Our elders sitting in the gates, can now no more be found,
Our youth leave off to take delight, in musicks sacred sound.
The joy and comfort of our heart, away is fled and gone,
Our solace is with sorrow mixt, our mirth is turn'd to mone.
Our glory now is laid full low, and buried in the ground,
Our sins ful sore do burthen us, whose greatnes doth abound.
Oh holy blessed Sion hill, my heart is woe for thee,
Mine eies poure foorth a flood of teares, this dismal day to see,
Which art destroied and now lieth wast, from sacred use & trade,
Thy holie place is now a den, of filthy Foxes made.
But thou the everliving Lord, which doost remaine for aye,
Whose seat above the firmament, full sure and still doth stay.
Wherefore dost thou forsake thine owne? shal we forgotten be?
Turne us good Lord, and so we shall be turned unto thee.
Lord cal us home from our exile, to place of our abode,
Thou long inough hast punisht us, oh Lord, now spare thy rod.