Songs

In the black dismal dungeon of despair,
Pin’d with tormenting care,
Wrack’d with my fears,
Drown’d in my tears,
With dreadful expectation of my doom
And certain horrid judgement soon to come.
Lord, here I lie,
Lost to all hope of liberty,
Hence never to remove
But by a miracle of Love,
Which I scarce dare hope for, or expect,
Being guilty of so long, so great neglect.
Fool that I was, worthy a sharper rod,
To slight thy courting, O my God!
For thou did’st woo, intreat, and grieve,
Did’st beg me to be happy and to live;
But I would not; I chose to dwell
With Death, far from thee,
Too near to Hell.
But is there no redemption, no relief?
Jesu! Thou sav’d’st a Magdalen, a thief;
O Jesu! Thy mercy, Lord, once more advance.
O give me such a glance
As Peter had; thy sweet, kind, chiding look
Will change my heart, as it did melt that rock;
Look on me, sweet Jesu, as thou did’st on him!
’Tis more than to create, thus, to redeem.