Lord, I confesse my sinne is great;

Great is my sinne: Oh! gently treat

With thy quick flow'r, thy momentanie bloom;

Whose life still pressing

Is one undressing,

A steadie aiming at a tombe.

Mans age is two houres work, or three:

Each day doth round about us see.

Thus are we to delights: but we are all

To sorrows old,

If life be told

From what life feeleth, Adams fall.

O let thy height of mercie then

Compassionate short-breathed men.

Cut me not off for my most foul transgression:

I do confesse

My foolishnesse;

My God, accept of my confession.

Sweeten at length this bitter bowl,

Which thou hast pour'd into my soul;

Thy wormwood turn to health, windes to fair weather:

For if thou stay,

I and this day,

As we did rise, we die together.

When thou for sinne rebukest man,

Forthwith he waxeth wo and wan:

Bitternesse fills our bowels; all our hearts

Pine, and decay,

And drop away,

And carrie with them th’ other parts.

But thou wilt sinne and grief destroy;

That so the broken bones may joy,

And tune together in a well-set song,

Full of his praises,

Who dead men raises.

Fractures well cur'd make us more strong.