With sick and famisht eyes,

With doubling knees and weary bones,

To thee my cries,

To thee my grones,

To thee my sighs, my tears ascend:

No end?

My throat, my soul is hoarse:

My heart is wither'd like a ground

Which thou dost curse.

My thoughts turn round,

And make me giddie; Lord, I fall,

Yet call.

From thee all pitie flows.

Mothers are kinde, because thou art,

And dost dispose

To them a part:

Their infants, them; and they suck thee

More free.

Bowels of pitie, heare!

Lord of my soul, love of my minde,

Bow down thine eare!

Let not the winde

Scatter my words, and in the same

Thy name!

Look on my sorrows round!

Mark well my furnace! O what flames,

What heats abound!

What griefs, what shames!

Consider, Lord; Lord, bow thine eare,

And heare!

Lord Jesu, thou didst bow

Thy dying head upon the tree:

O be not now

More dead to me!

Lord heare! Shall he that made the eare,

Not heare?

Behold, thy dust doth stirre,

It moves, it creeps, it aims at thee:

Wilt thou deferre

To succour me,

Thy pile of dust, wherein each crumme

Sayes, Come?

To thee help appertains.

Hast thou left all things to their course,

And laid the reins

Upon the horse?

Is all lockt? hath a sinners plea

No key?

Indeed the world's thy book,

Where all things have their leafe assign'd:

Yet a meek look

Hath interlin'd.

Thy board is full, yet humble guests

Finde nests.

Thou tarriest, while I die,

And fall to nothing: thou dost reigne,

And rule on high,

While I remain

In bitter grief: yet am I stil'd

Thy childe.

Lord, didst thou leave thy throne,

Not to relieve? how can it be,

That thou art grown

Thus hard to me?

Were sinne alive, good cause there were

To bear.

But now both sinne is dead,

And all thy promises live and bide.

That wants his head;

These speak and chide,

And in thy bosome poure my tears,

As theirs.

Lord J e s u, heare my heart,

Which hath been broken now so long,

That ev'ry part

Hath got a tongue!

Thy beggars grow; rid them away

To day.