Good Lord, behold this Dreadfull Enemy Who makes me tremble with his fierce assaults, I dare not trust, yet feare to give the ly, For in my soul, my soul finds many faults. And though I justify myselfe to's face: I do Condemn myselfe before thy Grace. He strives to mount my sins, and them advance Above thy Merits, Pardons, or Good Will Thy Grace to lessen, and thy Wrath t'inhance As if thou couldst not pay the sinners bill. He Chiefly injures thy rich Grace, I finde Though I confess my heart to sin inclin'de. Those Graces which thy Grace enwrought in mee, He makes as nothing but a pack of Sins. He maketh Grace no grace, but Crueltie, Is Graces Honey Comb, a Comb of Stings? This makes me ready leave thy Grace and run. Which if I do, I finde I am undone. I know he is thy Cur, therefore I bee Perplexed lest I from thy Pasture stray. He bayghs, and barks so veh'mently at mee. Come rate this Cur, Lord, breake his teeth I pray. Remember me I humbly pray thee first. Then halter up this Cur that is so Curst. |