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| SENCE 1 thou has not, O Lord, left me to lye | |
| A scorn to foes in my o’rwhelmed right, | |
| But hast exalted up my head on hye, | |
| Of thee my songe shal be, and of thy might. | |
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| When I cryd for thy all-relevinge ayde, | 5 |
| Thou didst restore to ioye my sade distresse: | |
| When at the grave my soule for entrance stayd, | |
| From grave thou didst returne my heavinesse. | |
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| O singe, therefore, due praises to the Lord; | |
| You blessed saints, do you his praises singe: | 10 |
| Do you the holynesse with thankes record, | |
| Which doth belong to this our heavenly Kinge. | |
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| For he no long tyme doth his ire prolonge, | |
| His frowninge wrath within a while is dead, | |
| When then, as if he’d done me wretch a wronge, | 15 |
| In’s smilinge brow glad life is pictured. | |
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| This did my whyninge life endure awhile, | |
| Whilst th’ earth was buried with an evening’s shade; | |
| But when the morning’s light began to smile, | |
| My ioy did come, and all my woe did fade. | 20 |
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| And when things flowed to my full content, | |
| And blind prosperitye on me attended, | |
| Now shall these ioyes, quoth I, which God hath sent, | |
| Now shall these lastinge ioyes be never ended. | |
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| For thou, deere Lord, ev’n thou of tender love, | 25 |
| And of that goodnesse which doth dwell in thee, | |
| As with a mountaine which can never move, | |
| Stand fast about the moovinge state of mee. | |
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| Therewith he turned his milder face aside, | |
| And all with turned thoughts besteed was I; | 30 |
| And every thought a world of woes implyed, | |
| Which strayned forth from me this dolefull crye: | |
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| Ah, Lord! if to the ground downe sunck I were, | |
| What price is in my bloud to proffett thee? | |
| If thou disrobe me of th’ earthe’s tyre I weare, | 35 |
| Can thy great praises then be songue by mee? | |
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| O can the mute and the untounged dust, | |
| Which in th’ eternall house of death doth dwell, | |
| Consum’d with wormes and ever-eatinge rust,— | |
| O can the dust of thy great gloryes tell? | 40 |
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| O heare me then, O Lord! O Lord, me heare, | |
| And send some mercyes, Lord, some mercyes send; | |
| O let thy saving health betymes appeare, | |
| And give my woes unto an happy end. | |
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| But thou has turnd about my murninge songe; | 45 |
| New tuns of ioye have drowned up my sadness, | |
| And for the sacke which shrouded me so longe, | |
| Thou hast clothed my soule with never-weering gladnes. | |
