Classic Poem

The souls comfort only from free grace.

Tis well for me
thy grace is free
Or else what hope had I
When on death bed I ly
Ready from hence, to take my flight
Unto the awefull Judg, of right.

The best duty
that ever I
Perform'd is not so free
from sin, but I may see
Enough in itt to make me dwell
For ever, in the Lowest hell,

Grace in high art
is imperfect
Coruption that doth weave
If self with it, and leave
Such durt, and filth behind that we
Cannot by it, Justifi'd bee.

Our chousest grace
In this our race
Hath still a tang and smell
Of that corupt vessell
In which tis poured forth wherby
We have nought wherof to glory.

What cause have we
thankfull to be
To our deer Jesus who
makes us, with boldnese to
Come, & appear, before the throne
Cloth'd, with his righteousnese alone.

Tis free grace which
doth us enrich
By it we ar cecure
and to the end endure
Being the strong foundation.
Of hoped for sallvation.

When grace we veiw
we still see new
Matter of love, and praise
and whilst on it, we gaze
We doe with great amaizment stand
Att that we cannot comprehand.