Lord, while that thy rage doth bide,
Do not chide:
Nor in anger chastise me,
For thy shafts have peirc’d me sore;
And yet more
Still thy hands upon me be.
No sound part caus’d by thy wrath
My flesh hath:
Nor my synns lett my boanes rest.
For my faults are highly spredd
On my hedd,
Whose foule weights have me opprest.
My woundes putrify, and stinck,
In the sinck
Of my filthy folly laid:
Earthly I do bow and crook,
With a look
Still in moorning cheere araid.
In my Reynes hott torments raignes,
There remaines
Nothing in my bodie sound.
I am weake and broken sore,
Yea I roare,
In my hart such griefe is found.
Lord before thee I do lay
What I pray:
My sighes are not hid from thee
My hart pants, gon is my might,
Even the light
Of myne eyes abandons me.
From my plague, kinne, neighbour, frend
Farre of wend:
But who for my life do waite,
They lay snares, they nimble be,
Who hunt me,
Speaking evill, thincking deceite.
But I like, a mann become,
Deafe and dumb,
Little hearing, speaking lesse,
I even as such kind of wight,
Senclesse quite,
Word with word do not represse.
For on the, Lord, without end
I attend:
My God, thou wilt heare my voice
For I said, heare, least they be
Gladd on me,
Whome my fall doth make rejoyce.
Sure I do but halting goe,
And my woe
Still my orethwart neighbour is.
Lo I now to moorne beginne
For my sinne,
Telling mine iniquities.
But the while, they live and grow
In greate show.
Many, mighty, wrongfull foes:
Who do evill for good, to me
Enimies be,
Why? because I vertue chose.
Do not Lord, then me forsake,
Doe not take
Thy deere presence farre from me,
Haste ô Lord, that I be staid
By thy aid,
My salvation is in thee.