THE SINNER
Lord, how I am all sickness, when I seek
What I have treasured in my memory!
Since, if my soul make even with the week,
Each seventh note by right is due to thee.
I find there quarries of piled vanities,
But shreds of holiness, that dare not venture
To show their face, since cross to your decrees:
There the circumference earth is, heaven the center.
In so much dregs the quintessence is small:
The spirit and good extract of my heart
Comes to about the many hundred part.
Yet Lord restore yours image, hear my call:
And though my hard heart scarce to you can groan,
Remember that you once did write on stone.
What I have treasured in my memory!
Since, if my soul make even with the week,
Each seventh note by right is due to thee.
I find there quarries of piled vanities,
But shreds of holiness, that dare not venture
To show their face, since cross to your decrees:
There the circumference earth is, heaven the center.
In so much dregs the quintessence is small:
The spirit and good extract of my heart
Comes to about the many hundred part.
Yet Lord restore yours image, hear my call:
And though my hard heart scarce to you can groan,
Remember that you once did write on stone.
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