html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }LOrd, I confesse my sinne is great;
Great is my sinne. Oh! gently treat
With thy quick flow'r, thy moment anie bloom;
Whose life still pressing
Is one undressing,
A steadie aiming at a tombe.
Mans age is two houres work, or three:
Each day doth round about us see.
Thus are we to delights: but we are all
To sorrows old,
If life be told
From what life feeleth, Adams fall.
O let thy height of mercy then
Compassionate short-breathed men.
Cut me not off for my most foul transgression:
I do confesse
My foolishnesse;
My God, accept of my confession.
Sweeten at length this bitter bowl,
Which thou hast pour'd into my soul:
Thy wormwood turn to health, windes to fair weather:
For if thou stay,
I and this day,
As we did rise, we die together.
When thou for sinne rebukest man,
Forthwith he waxeth wo and wan:
Bitternesse fills our bowels; all our hearts
Pine and decay,
And drop away,
And carrie with them th' other parts.
But thou wilt sinne and grief destroy;
That so the broken bones may joy,
And tune together in a well-set song,
Full of his praises,
Who dead men raises.
Fractures well cur'd make us more strong.