Classic Poem

desertion.

The full asurance of thy love
I never yet atain'd
Yet could I goe, to god above
My suit, was not disdain'd

My sins, & sorows, I could tell
Easing my mind oprest
Unto the god, of Israell
Alas, these days, ar past

Against me bitter things, he lays
Making me to possese
The inniquitys, of former days
My soul's a wildernese

Afections they, were quik, and flowing
But now, alase, they flag
My love on wing, to heaven soaring
But now, I feell it lag

Its sad to be deny'd thy face
And comforts, of thy spirit
Its worse, to be depriv'd of grace
Which once, wee did inherit

I dare not ask, what is the cause
My sins doe Loudly tell
It might have been, far worse with thee
Thou mights have been, in hell
Once I could say, Lord, I doe love thee
But now I question all
When I would in, thy presence be
My spirits sink, & fall.

Thou seemst to bid me, goe away
Oh whether should I goe
My trouble, that finds no alay
but dayly high'r grow

Soe hartlese, many times I am
I know not how to speak
It is not fears, that thou wilt damne
That makes my comforts leak

But tis a cursed frame of hart
That I doe see, & feell,
Which makes me, dayly for to smart
Till thou be pleasd, to heall

The cutting sence of thy displesure
From th hiding of thy face
Is that which in soe great a measure
Imbiters, my short race

When I look into my own hart
I know not what to make on't
All things ar there, soe black & dark
I am, even, afraid on't

I'me brought to this dilemma sad
To cry, what shall I doe
Through paiths, of darknese, I am led
My soull is full of woe

I cant find out, this enemy
That has this mischeif done
And fils me, with perplexety
Enlighten me, bright sun

But this I know, thers cause enough
It should be thus with me
And that I should be handled rough
Seeing noe smile from thee

My way, is hedged up with stone
I cannot find my paith
My soull doth grope, in dark alone
No true suport it hath

Look thou, on mine afliction
My sore, & pained, hart
And take away coruption
Which makes me for to smart

What I have left, is only thus
Some secreet it may be
The Lord will yet, be gracious
And pitifull, to mee

With, a cloud, thy self, thou coverest
My prayer cannot pase
I have rebeled, & transgrest
My soull, noe pardon has

In darknese, I am made to dwell
As those that long ar dead
Being neer a kin, to those in hell
Whose hope is perished

To make my moane, to man, its vain
To thee Lord, I will come
And if thou dost, my suit distaine
I can but, be undone

The best that man; can doe for mee
Is to extend, their pity
The grace to help, must come from thee
or else, I shall be needy

Thou art the potter, I thy clay
And thou mayst doe with me
What thou seest good, all I would say
Is, to, Justifie thee

Though I should never, with thee dwell
But be thrown to, the lowest hell

Might my requests, be given in
I never would, against thee sin

Whilst thou art powring wrath on me
I'de burn, in flames of love to thee

And alwais I, would Justifie
Thy spotlese, Just, severity

But heres my grief, this cannot bee
Thou'lt not turn hell, into heav'n for me: