O DREADFULL Justice, what a fright and terrour Wast thou of old, When sinne and errour Did show and shape thy looks to me, And through their glasse discolour thee! He that did but look up, was proud and bold. The dishes of thy balance seem'd to gape, Like two great pits; The beam and scape Did like some tott'ring engine show: Thy hand above did burn and glow, Daunting the stoutest hearts, the proudest wits. But now that Christs pure vail presents the sight, I see no fears: Thy hand is white; Thy scales like buckets, which attend And interchangeably descend, Lifting to heaven from this well of tears. For where before thou still didst call on me, Now I still touch And harp on thee. Gods promises hath made thee mine: Why should I justice now decline? Against me there is none, but for me much. |