|
| Shall behold God, and never taste deaths woe, |
| But let them sleepe, Lord, and me mourne a space, |
| For, if above all these, my sinnes abound, |
| 'Tis late to aske abundance of thy grace, |
| When we are there. Here on this lowly ground, |
| Teach me how to repent; for that's as good |
| As if thou had'st seal'd my pardon, with thy blood. |
|
| VIII. |
|
| If faithfull soules be alike glorifi'd |
| As Angels, then my fathers soule doth see, |
| And adds this even to full felicitie, |
| That valiantly I hels wide mouth o'rstride: |
| But if our mindes to these soules be descry'd |
| By circumstances, and by signes that be |
| Apparent in us not immediately, |
| How shall my mindes white truth by them be try'd? |
| They see idolatrous lovers weepe and mourne, |
| And stile blasphemous Conjurers to call |
| On Iesus name, and Pharisaicall |
| Dissemblers feigne devotion. Then turne |
| O pensive soule, to God, for he knowes best |
| Thy griefe, for he put it into my breast.
|
[CW: IX.] |