University of Virginia Library

56 PSALM 73.

Thoughe, Lorde, to Israell thy graces plentuous be—
I meane to such with pure intent as fixe their trust in the—,
Yet whiles the faith did faynt that shold haue ben my guyde,
Lyke them that walk in slipper pathes my feet began to slyde.
Whiles I did grudge at those that glorey in ther golde,
Whose lothsom pryde reioyseth welth, in quiet as they wolde.
To se by course of yeres what nature doth appere,
The pallayces of princely fourme succede from heire to heire;
From all such trauailes free as longe to Adams sede;
Neither withdrawne from wicked works by daunger nor by dread,
Wherof their skornfull pryde; and gloried with their eyes,
As garments clothe the naked man, thus ar they clad in vyce.
Thus as they wishe succeds the mischief that they meane,
Whose glutten cheks slouth feads so fatt as scant their eyes be sene.
Vnto whose crewell power most men for dred ar fayne
To bend and bow with loftye looks, whiles they vawnt in their rayne
And in their bloody hands, whose creweltye doth frame
The wailfull works that skourge the poore with out regard of blame.
To tempt the living God they thinke it no offence,
And pierce the symple with their tungs that can make no defence.
Suche proofes bifore the iust, to cawse the harts to wauer,
Be sett, lyke cupps myngled with gall of bitter tast and sauer.
Then saye thy foes in skorne, that tast no other foode,
But sucke the fleshe of thy elect and bath them in their bloode:
“Shold we beleue the Lorde doth know and suffer this?
Ffoled be he with fables vayne that so abused is.”
In terrour of the iust thus raignes iniquitye,
Armed with power, laden with gold, and dred for crueltye.
Then vayne the warr might seme that I by faythe mayntayne
Against the fleshe, whose false effects my pure hert wold distayne.
For I am scourged still, that no offence have doon,
By wrathes children; and from my byrth my chastesing begoon.
When I beheld their pryde and slacknes of thy hand,
I gan bewaile the woful state wherin thy chosen stand.
And as I sought wherof thy sufferaunce, Lord, shold groo,
I found no witt cold pierce so farr, thy hollye domes to knoo,
And that no mysteryes nor dought could be distrust
Till I com to the holly place, the mansion of the iust,
Where I shall se what end thy iustice shall prepare
For such as buyld on worldly welth, and dye ther colours faire.
Oh! how their ground is false and all their buylding vayne!
And they shall fall, their power shall faile that did their pryde mayntayne.
As charged harts with care, that dreme some pleasaunt tourne,
After their sleape fynd their abuse, and to their plaint retourne,
So shall their glorye faade; thy sword of vengeaunce shall,
Vnto their dronken eyes, in blood disclose their errours all.
And when their golden fleshe is from their backe yshorne,
The spotts that vnder neth wer hidd, thy chosen shepe shall skorne.
And till that happye daye my hert shall swell in care,
My eyes yeld teares, my yeres consume bitwne hope and dispayre.
Loo! how my sprits ar dull, and all thy iudgments darke;
No mortall hedd may skale so highe, but wunder at thy warke.
Alas! how oft my foes haue framed my decaye;
But when I stode in drede to drenche, thy hands still did me stay.
And in eache voyage that I toke to conquer synne,
Thow wert my guyd, and gaue me grace to comfort me therin.
And when my withered skyn vnto my bones did cleue,
And fleshe did wast, thy grace did then my simple sprits releue.
In other succour then, Oh Lord, why should I trust,
But onely thyn, whom I haue found in thy behight so iust.
And suche for drede or gayne, as shall thy name refuse,
Shall perishe with their golden godds that did their harts seduce.
Where I, that in thy worde haue set my trust and ioye,
The highe reward that longs therto shall quietlye enioye.
And my unworthye lypps, inspired with thy grace,
Shall thus forespeke thy secret works, in sight of Adams race.