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 dim eyes any way; Despair behind, and death before, doth cast Such terror, and my feeble flesh doth waste By sin in it, which it towards 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 myself I can sustain: Thy grace may wing me to prevent his art, And thou, like adamant, draw mine iron heart. II. As due by many titles, I resign Myself to thee, O God! First I was made By thee, and for thee; and when I was decayed Thy blood bought that, the which before was thine. I am thy son, made with thyself to shine, Thy servant, whose pains thou hast still repaid, Thy sheep, thine image; and, till I betrayed Myself, a temple of thy Spirit divine. Why doth the devil then usurp on me? Why doth he steal, nay, ravish, that's thy right? Except thou rise, and for thine own work fight, Oh! I shall soon despair, when I shall see That thou lov'st mankind well, yet wilt not choose me, And Satan hates me, yet is loth to lose me. III. Oh! might these sighs and tears return again Into my breast and eyes which I have spent, That I might, in this holy discontent, Mourn with some fruit, as I have mourned in vain! In mine idolatry what showers of rain Mine eyes did waste! what griefs my heart did rent! That sufferance was my sin I now repent; 'Cause I did suffer, I must suffer pain. The hydroptic drunkard, and night-scouting thief, The itchy lecher, and self-tickling proud, Have th' remembrance of past joys for relief Of coming ills. To poor me is allow'd No ease; for long yet vehement grief hath been The effect and cause, the punishment and sin. IV. Oh! my black soul! now thou art summoned By sickness, death's herald and champion, Thou 'rt like a pilgrim which abroad hath done Treason, and durst not turn to whence he is fled; Or like a thief, which, till death's doom be read, Wisheth himself delivered from prison; But damn'd, and haul'd to execution, Wisheth that still he might be imprisoned: Yet grace, if thou repent, thou canst not lack; But who shall give thee that grace to begin? Oh! make thyself with holy mourning black, And red with blushing, as thou art with sin; Or wash thee in Christ's blood, which hath this might, That, being red, it dyes red souls to white. V.