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Thy praising me is not perfite,
My saints shall praise me evermore,
In sinners I have no delight,
Such sacrifice I do abhor.
Then she unto the Lord did say,
At footstool of thy grace I'll lye,
Sweet Lord my God, say me not nay,
For if I perish here I'll die.
Poor silly wretch, then speak no more,
Thy faith, poor soul, hath saved thee;
Enter thou in inito my glore,
And rest thro' all eternity.
How soon our Saviour these words said,
A long white robe to her was given;
And then the angels did her lead,
Forthwith within the gates of heaven:
A laurel crown set on her head,
Spangled with rubies and with gold:
A bright white palm she always had,
Glorious it was for to behold;
Her face did shine like to the sun,
Like threads of gold her hair hang down,
Her eyes like lamps unto the moon,
Of precious stones rich was her crown.
Angles and saints did welcome her,
The heavenly choir did sing, rejoice;
King David with his harp was there:
The silver bells gave a great noise.
Such music and such melody
Was never either heard or seen,
When this poor saint was placed so high,
