 | Divine poems
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Eleg. 8.
Had not the milder hand of mercy broke
The furious violence of that fatall stroke
Offended Iustice strucke, we had beene quite
Lost in the shadowes of eternall night;
Thy mercy Lord, is like the morning Sunne,
Whose beames undoe, what sable night hath done;
Or like a streame, the current of whose course,
Restrain'd a while, runs with a swifter force;
Oh, let me swelter in those sacred beames,
And after bathe me in these silver streames;
To thee alone, my sorrowes shall appeale;
Hath earth a wound, too hard for heaven to heale?
| Divine poems
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