Classic Poem

Remorse upbraides my faultes;
Selfe-blaming conscience cries;
Synn claymes the hoast of humbled thoughtes
And streames of weeping eyes:

Let penance, Lorde, prevayle;
Lett sorowe sue release;
Lett love be umpier in my cause,
And passe the dome of peace.

If dome goe by deserte,
My lest desert is death; least
That robbes from soule, immortall joyes,
From bodye, mortall breathe.

But in so highe a God,
So base a worme's annoy
Can add no praise unto Thy poure,
No blisse unto Thy joye.

Well may I frye in flames,
Due fuell to hell-fire!
But on a wretch to wreake Thy wrath
Cannot be worth Thyne ire.

Yett sith so vile a worme
Hath wrought his greatest spite,
Of highest treasons well Thou mayst
In rigour him endite.

Butt Mercye may relente,
And temper Justice' rodd,
For mercy doth as much belonge
As justice to a Godd.

If former tyme or place
More right to mercy wynne,
Thou first wert author of my self,
Then umpier of my synne.

Did Mercye spynn the thredd,
To weave in Justice' loome?
Wert thou a Father, to conclude
With dreadfull judge's doome?

It is a small releife
To say I was Thy childe,
If, as an evell-deserving foe,
From grace I be exilde.

I was, I had, I coulde,
All wordes importing wante;
They are but dust of dead supplies,
Where needfull helpes ar scante.

Once to have bene in blisse
That hardly can retorne,
Doth but bewray from whence I fell,
And wherefore now I mourne.

All thoughtes of passed hopes
Encrease my present crosse;
Like ruynes of decayed joyes,
They still upbraide my losse.

O mylde and mightye Lorde!
Amend that is amisse;
My synn my sore, Thy love my salve,
Thy cure my comfort is.

Confirme Thy former deede,
Reforme that is defild;
I was, I am, I will remayne
Thy charge, Thy choise, Thy childe.