Blessed is hee whose filthy staine
The Lord with pardon doth make cleane,
Whose fault well hidden lieth.
Blessed in deede to whom the Lord
Imputes not sinnes to be abhord,
Whose spirit falshood flieth.
Thus I prest down with weight of paine,
Whether I silent did remaine,
Or roar’d, my boanes still wasted.
For soe both day and night did stand
On wretched me, thy heavie hand,
My life hott tormentes tasted.
Till my self did my faultes confesse;
And opened mine own wickednes,
Whereto my hart did give me:
So I my self accus’d to God,
And his sweete grace streight eas’d the rodd,
And dyd due paine forgive me.
Therefore shall every godly one
In fitt time make to thee his moane,
When thou wilt deigne to heare hym.
Sure, sure the flood of strayeng streames,
How ever they putt in their claimes,
Shall never dare come neere hym.
Thou art my safe and secrett place,
Who savest me from troublous case,
To songs and joyfull biding.
But who so will instructed be,
Come, come the way I will teach thee;
Guide thee by my eyes guiding.
Oh, be not like a horse, or Mule
Wholy devoide of reasons rule;
Whose mouthes thy self dost bridle:
Knowing full well, that beastes they be,
And therefore soone would mischief thee,
If thou remained’st idle.
Woes, woes shall come to wicked folkes.
But who on God, his trust, invokes,
All mercies shalbe swarmed.
Be gladd you good, in God have joy,
Joy be to you, who doe enjoy
Your hartes with cleernesse armed.