Classic Poem

septem 3 72

thou seest itt fitt, to keep me low
That pride, may not upon me grow.

Because I have not what I would
I am, by mine own thoughts befool'd.

And look upon thee as my foe
Because att once, all doth not flow.

To satisfaction, of desires
Saten, with unbeleife, conspires.

To rob me of, the comfort which
Would flow unto me from the rich.

Beginnings, of thy grace, in me
Which shall att last, perfected be.

How ready, am I to take part
With Saten. who by runing art.

Doth cast a mist before mine eyes
And cause Such darknese to arise.

That what I have, I cannot see
But what I want, that's clear to me.

That which I have, I doe refuse
On what I want, I lye and muse.

Whilst I should thankfully adore
And grow in praises, more, & more.

For what in mercy, thou hast done
In that thy grace, has overrun.

The praise, that I to thee can give
Both here, and when I come to live.

With thee, in an eternity
The dept will but encrease, theirby.

Take thou not the advantage of
My unbeleife, oh god of love.

But let thy grace. my strength renew
till I thy face, in glory veiw.