« PredošláPokračovať »
The constant hope of soules opprest 19 Shall not aye dye. Rise from thy rest,
O Lord. Let not men base and rude
Prevaile: judge thou the multitude
Into those brests, that stubborne were:
AS THE LIST PSALM,
"O God, consider.”
And bid'st thee in due times of need, 2 While lewd men proudly offer wrong
Unto the poore? In their owne deed
And their device, let them be caught. 3 For, loe, the wicked braves and boasts,
In his vile and outragious thought;
And blesseth him, that ravines most. 4. On God he dares insult : his pride
Scornes to enquire of powers above;
But his stout thoughts have still deni'd 5 There is a God. His wayes yet prove
Aye prosperous: thy judgements hye
Doe farre surmount his dimmer sight. 6 Therefore doth he all foes defie:
His heart saith, I shall stand in spight,
Nor ever move; nor danger 'bide. 7 His mouth is fill'd with curses foule,
And with close fraud: his tongue doth hide 8 Mischiefe and ill : he seekes the soule
Of harmelesse men, in secret wait;
poore are set. 9 As some fell lion in his den,
He closely lurks, the poore to spoyle:
When once he snares them in his toyle. 10 He crowcheth low in cunning wile,
And bowes his brest; whereon whole throngs
11 God hath forgot, in soule he sayes :
He hides his face to never see. 12 Lord God, arise, thy hand up-raise :
Let not thy poore forgotten be. 13 Shall these insulting
wretches scorne Their God; and say, thou wilt not care ? 14 Thou see'st (for all thou hast forborne)
Thou see'st what all their mischiefes are;
The helpe of orphans and oppressed.
And search out all their cursed traines,
And let them vanish out of sight. 16 The Lord, as King, for ever reignes.
From forth his coasts, the heathen sect 17 Are rooted quite: thou, Lord, attend'st
To poore men's suits; thou do'st direct
Their hearts: to them thine eare thou bend'st; 18 That thou mayst rescue from despight,
The wofull fatherlesse and poore :
CATHEDRAL OF EXETER
LORD, what am I? A worm, dust, vapor, nothing !
My time, my flesh, my life, and I;
What are we, Lord, but vanity?"
My way, my trade, sport, stay, and place
Help to make up my dolefull case. Lord, what art thou ? Pure life, power, beauty, bliss : Where dwell'st thou ? Up above, in perfect light: What is thy time? Eternity it is: What state? Attendance of each glorious sp'rit:
Thyself, thy place, thy dayes, thy state
Pass all the thoughts of powers create.
Oh, let these wings, that way alone
MMORTALL babe, who this dear day
Leave, O my soul, this baser world below,
Lo there the Godhead's radiant throne,
Like to ten thousand suns in one! Lo there thy Saviour dear in glory dight Ador'd of all the powers of heavens bright: Lo where that head, that bled with thorny wound, Shines ever with celestial honour crownd:
That hand, that held the scornfull reed,
Makes all the fiends infernall dread: That back and side, that ran with bloody streams, Daunt angels' eyes with their majestick beames: Those feet, once fastened to the cursed tree, Trample on death and hell, in glorious glee.
Those lips, once drench't with gall, do make
With their dread doom the world to quake. Behold those joyes thou never canst behold; Those precious gates of pearl, those streets of gold, Those streams of life, those trees of paradise, That never can be seen by mortal eyes :
And, when thou seest this state divine,
Think that it is or shall be thine.
And now, beforehand, help to sing