Classic Poem

When the angels all are singing
All of glory euer springing,
In the ground of high heauen's graces,
Where all vertues haue their places:
Oh that my poore soule were neere them
With an humble heart to heare them.

Then should Faith in Loue's submission
Ioying but in Mercie's blessing,
Where that sinnes are in remission
Sing the ioyfull soule's confessing.
Of her comfort's high commending.
All in glory neuer ending.

But, ah wretched sinfull creature,
How should the corrupted nature
Of this wicked heart of mine,
Thinke vpon that loue diuine,
That doth tune the angels' voices,
While the hoast of heauen reioyces!

No, the songe of deadly sorrowe,
In the night that hath no morrow,
And their paines are neuer ended,
That haue heauenly powers offended
Is more fitting to the merite
Of my foule infected spirite.

Yet while Mercie is remoouing
All the sorrowes of the louing,
How can Faith be full of blindnesse
To despaire of Mercie's kindnesse:
While the hand of heauen is giuing
Comfort from the euer-liuing?

No, my soule, be no more sorrie;
Look vnto that life of glorie,
Which the grace of Faith regardeth
And the teares of Loue rewardeth:
Where the soule the comfort getteth
That the angels' musique setteth.

There when thou art well conducted
And by heauenly grace instructed.
How the faithfull thoughtes to fashion
Of a rauisht louer's passion,
Sing with sainctes to aungels nighest.
Halleluiah in the highest!