Can I not come to Thee, my God, for these So very-many-meeting hindrances, That slack my pace; but yet not make me stay? Who slowly goes, rids (in the end) his way. Cleere Thou my paths, or shorten Thou my miles, Remove the barrs, or lift me o're the stiles: Since rough the way is, help me when I call, And take me up; or els prevent the fall. I kenn my home; and it affords some ease, To see far off the smoaking Villages. Fain would I rest; yet covet not to die, For feare of future-biting penurie: No, no, (my God) Thou know'st my wishes be To leave this life, not loving it, but Thee. |