XCI. Anonymous

THOUGH late, my heart, yet turne at last,

And shape thy course another way;

’Tis better lose thy labour past,

Then follow on to sure decay:

What though thou long haue straid awry?

In hope of grace for mercy cry.

Though weight of sinne doth presse thee downe,

And keepe thee grou’ling on the ground;

Though blacke dispaire with angry frowne

Thy wit and judgment quite confound;

Though time and wit haue beene mispent,

Yet grace is left, if thou repent.

Weepe then, my heart, weepe still, and still;

Nay, melt to floods of flowing teares;

Send out such shrikes as heauen may fill,

And pierce thine angry Judge’s eares:

And let thy soule, that harbours sin,

Bleed streames of bloud to drowne it in.

Then shall thine angry Judge’s face

To cheereful lookes itselfe apply;

Then shall thy soule be fild with grace,

And feare of death constraind to fly:

Euen so, my God! oh, when? how long?

I would, but sinne is too, too strong.

I striue to rise,—sinne keepes me downe;

I fly from sinne,—sinne followes me:

My will doth reach at glorie’s crowne;

Weake is my strength, it will not be:

See how my fainting soule doth pant!

O let thy strength supply my want.