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O Lamb of God, which tookst our sin * |
Which could not stick to thee, |
O let it not return to us again, |
But Patient and Physitian being free, |
As sin is nothing, let it no where be. |
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Upon the translation of the Psalms by Sir Phi- |
lip Sydney, and the Countess of Pembrook |
his Sister. |
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Eternal God, (for whom who ever dare |
Seek new expressions, do the Circle square, |
And thrust into strait corners of poor wit |
Thee, who art cornerless and infinite) |
I would but bless thy Name, not name thee now; |
(And thy gifts are as infinite as thou:) |
Fix we our praises therefore on this one, |
That as thy blessed Spirit fell upon |
These Psalms first Author in a cloven tongue, |
(For 'twas a double power by which he sung |
The highest matter in the noblest form;) |
So thou hast cleft that Spirit, to perform |
That work again, and shed it, here, upon |
Two, by their bloods, and by thy Spirit one; |
A brother and a Sister, made by thee |
The Organ, where thou art the Harmony, |
Two that make one Iohn Baptists holy voice; |
And who that Psalm, Now let the Isles rejoyce, |
Have both translated, and apply'd it too, |
Both told us what, and taught us how to do. |
They shew us Ilanders our joy, our King, |
They tell us why, and teach us how to sing.
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[CW: Make] |