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O strong Ramm, which hast batter'd heaven for me, * |
Mild Lamb, which with thy blood hast mark'd the path; |
Bright torch which shin'st, that I the way may see, |
Oh, with thy own blood quench thy own just wrath, |
And if thy holy Spirit my Muse did raise, |
Deign at my hands this crown of prayer and praise. |
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Holy Sonnets. |
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I. |
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Thou hast made me, and shall thy work decay? |
Repair me now, for now mine end doth haste, |
I run to death, and death meets me as fast, |
And all my pleasures are like yesterday, |
I dare not move my dimme eyes any way; |
Despair behind, and death before doth cast |
Such terrour, and my feeble flesh doth waste |
By sin in it, which it t'wards hell doth weigh; |
Only thou art above, and when towards thee |
By thy leave I can look, I rise again; |
But our old subtle foe so tempteth me, |
That not one hour my self I can sustain; |
Thy Grace may wing me to prevent his art, |
And thou like adamant draw mine iron heart. |
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II. |
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As due by many titles I resigne |
My self to thee, O God. First I was made |
By thee, and for thee; and when I was decay'd, |
Thy bloud bought that the which before was thine; |
I am thy Son, made with thy self to shine, |
Thy servant, whose pains thou hast still repaid, |
Thy Sheep, thine Image, and till I betray'd
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[CW: My] |