Schola Cordis or the Heart of it Selfe, gone away from God ::

The Soule.
Can death, or hell, be worse then this estate?
Anguish, amazement, horror, and confusion,
Drowne my distracted mind in deep distresse.
My grief's grown so transcendent, that I hate
To heare of comfort, as a false Conclusion
Vainly inferr'd from feigned Premises.
What shall I do? what strange course shall I try,
That, though I loath to live, yet dare not die?

Christ.
Be rul'd by me, I'll teach thee such a way,
As that thou shalt not onely draine thy mind
From that destructive deluge of distresse,
That overwhelmes thy thoughts, but clear the day,
And soone recover light, and strength to find,
And to regaine thy long lost happinesse.
Confesse, & pray. Say what it is doth aile thee,
What thou wouldst have, and that shall soon availe thee.

The Soule.
Confesse and pray? If that be all, I will.
Lord, I am sick, and thou art health, restore me.
Lord, I am weake, and thou art strength, sustaine me.
Thou art all goodnesse, Lord, and I all ill.
Thou Lord, art holy, I uncleane before thee.
Lord, I am poor, and thou art rich, maintaine me.
Lord, I am dead, and thou art life, revive me.
Justice condemnes, let mercy, Lord, reprieve me.

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A wretched miscreant I am, compos'd
Of sinne, and misery; 't is hard to say,
Which of the two allyes me most to hell:
Native corruption makes me indispos'd
To all that's good, but apt to go astray,
Prone to doe ill, unable to doe well.
My light is darknesse, and my liberty
Bondage, my beauty foule deformity.

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A plague of leprosie o'rspreadeth all
My pow'rs, and faculties: I um uncleane,
I am uncleane: my liver broyles with lust,
Rancor and malice overflow my gall,
Envy my bones doth rot, and keep me leane,
Revengefull wrath makes me forget what's just:
Mine eare's uncircumcis'd, mine eye is evill,
And hating goodnesse makes me parcell devill.

6

My callous conscience is cauteriz'd;
My trembling heart shakes with continuall feare:
My frantick passions fill my mind with madnesse:
My windy thoughts with pride are tympaniz'd:
My poys'nous tongue spits venome ev'ry where:

My wounded spirit's swallow'd up with sadnesse:
Impatient discontentment plagues me so,
I neither can stand still, nor forward goe.

7

Lord, I am all diseases: hospitalls,
And bills of Mountebanks, have not so many,
Nor halfe so bad. Lord, heare, and help, and heale me.
Although my guiltinesse for vengeance calls,
And colour of excuse I have not any,
Yet thou hast goodnesse, Lord, that may availe me.
Lord, I have powr'd out all my heart to thee:
Vouchsafe one drop of mercy unto me.

University of Virginia Library

Ode. 12.

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