 | Silex Scintillans |  |
51
The Relapse.
My God, how gracious art thou! I had sliptAlmost to hell,
And on the verge of that dark, dreadful pit
Did hear them yell,
But O thy love! thy rich, almighty love
That sav'd my soul,
And checkt their furie, when I saw them move,
And heard them howl;
O my sole Comfort, take no more these wayes,
This hideous path,
And I wil mend my own without delayes,
Cease thou thy wrath!
I have deserv'd a thick, Egyptian damp,
Dark as my deeds,
Should mist within me, and put out that lamp
Thy spirit feeds;
A darting Conscience full of stabs, and fears;
No shade but Yewgh,
Sullen, and sad Ecclipses, Cloudie spheres,
These are my due.
But he that with his bloud, (a price too deere,)
My scores did pay,
Bid me, by vertue from him, chalenge here
The brightest day;
Sweet, downie thoughts; soft Lilly-shades; Calm streams,
Joyes full, and true;
Fresh, spicie mornings; and eternal beams
These are his due.
| Silex Scintillans | |