Classic Poem

I know it is my sin which locks thine ears
And binds thy hands,
Out-crying my requests, drowning my tears;
Or else the chillness of my faint demands.

But as cold hands are angry with the fire,
And mend it still,
So I do lay the want of my desire
Not on my sins, or coldness, but thy will.

Yet hear, O God, only for his blood's sake
Which pleads for me:
For though sins plead too, yet like stones they make
His blood's sweet current much more loud to be.