LORD, I confesse my sinne is great; Great is my sinne. Oh! gently treat With thy quick flow'r, thy momentarie 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 mercie 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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A SOLDIER LISTENS by JEAN STARR UNTERMEYER AN ALPINE PICTURE by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH FOUR QUARTETS: BURNT NORTON by THOMAS STEARNS ELIOT SOULS LAKE by ROBERT STUART FITZGERALD IN MEMORIAM A.H.H.: 11 by ALFRED TENNYSON |