Hearken, O God, unto a wretch's cries, Who low dejected at thy footstool lies. Let not the clamour of my heinous sin Drown my requests, which strive to enter in At those bright gates, which always open stand To such as beg remission at thy hand.
Too well I know, if thou in rigour deal, I can nor pardon ask, nor yet appeal: To my hoarse voice, heaven will no audience grant, But deaf as brass, and hard as adamant 10 Beat back my words; therefore I bring to thee A gracious Advocate to plead for me.
What though my leprous soul no Jordan can Recure, nor floods of the lav'd Ocean Make clean? yet from my Saviour's bleeding side Two large and medicinable rivers glide. Lord, wash me where those streams of life abound, And new Bethesdas flow from ev'ry wound.
If I this precious lather may obtain, I shall not then despair for any stain; 20 I need no Gilead's balm, nor oil, nor shall I for the purifying hyssop call: My spots will vanish in His purple flood, And crimson there turn white, though wash'd with blood.
See, Lord! with broken heart and bended knee, How I address my humble suit to Thee; O give that suit admittance to Thy ears, Which floats to Thee, not in my words, but tears: And let my sinful soul this mercy crave, Before I fall into the silent grave. 30
[_A Penitential Hymn._] This piece is referred to by Anthony Wood as one of several 'anthems'. It was, he tells us, intended for Lenten use, and set by Dr. John Wilson, gentleman of the Chapel Royal. To this Dr. Wilson, Hannah thought that his collated MS. copy of King's _Poems_, which bears the name, had belonged, additional evidence being found in the curious fact that the Hymn appears in that copy out of order, and first.]
Well did the Prophet ask, _Lord, what is Man?_ Implying by the question none can But God resolve the doubt, much less define What elements this child of dust combine.
Man is a stranger to himself, and knows Nothing so naturally as his woes. He loves to travel countries, and confer The sides of Heaven's vast diameter: Delights to sit in Nile or Bætis' lap, Before he hath sail'd over his own map; 10 By which means he returns, his travel spent, Less knowing of himself than when he went. Who knowledge hunt kept under foreign locks, May bring home wit to hold a paradox, Yet be fools still. Therefore, might I advise, I would inform the soul before the eyes: Make man into his proper optics look, And so become the student and the book. With his conception, his first leaf, begin; What is he there but complicated sin? 20 When riper time, and the approaching birth Ranks him among the creatures of the earth, His wailing mother sends him forth to greet The light, wrapp'd in a bloody winding sheet; As if he came into the world to crave No place to dwell in, but bespeak a grave.