The Church.
93
The best of men, turn but thy hand
For one poore minute, stumble at a pinne:
They would not have their actions scann'd,
Nor any sorrow tell them that they sinne,
Though it be small,
And measure not their fall.
For one poore minute, stumble at a pinne:
They would not have their actions scann'd,
Nor any sorrow tell them that they sinne,
Though it be small,
And measure not their fall.
They quarrell thee, and would give over
The bargain made to serve thee: but thy love
Holds them unto it, and doth cover
Their follies with the wing of thy milde Dove,
Not suff'ring those
Who would, to be thy foes.
The bargain made to serve thee: but thy love
Holds them unto it, and doth cover
Their follies with the wing of thy milde Dove,
Not suff'ring those
Who would, to be thy foes.
My God, Man cannot praise thy name:
Thou art all brightnesse, perfect puritie:
The sunne holds down his head for shame,
Dead with eclipses, when we speak of thee.
How shall infection
Presume on thy perfection?
Thou art all brightnesse, perfect puritie:
The sunne holds down his head for shame,
Dead with eclipses, when we speak of thee.
How shall infection
Presume on thy perfection?
As dirtie hands foul all they touch,
And those things most, which are most pure and fine!
So our clay hearts, ev'n when we crouch
To sing thy praises, make them lesse divine.
Yet either this,
Or none thy portion is.
And those things most, which are most pure and fine!
So our clay hearts, ev'n when we crouch
To sing thy praises, make them lesse divine.
Yet either this,
Or none thy portion is.
Man cannot serve thee; let him go
And serve the swine: there, there is his delight:
He doth not like this Vertue, no;
Give him his dirt to wallow in all night:
These Preachers make
His head to shoot and ake.
And serve the swine: there, there is his delight:
He doth not like this Vertue, no;
Give him his dirt to wallow in all night:
These Preachers make
His head to shoot and ake.
Oh
