The Temple: Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations/The Sinner
¶ The Sinner.
LOrd, how I am all ague, when I seekWhat I have treasur'd in my memorie!Since, if my soul make even with the week,Each seventh note by right is due to thee.
I finde there quarries of pil'd vanities,But shreds of holinesse, that dare not ventureTo shew their face, since crosse to thy decrees:There the circumference earth is, heav'n the centre.
In so much dregs the quintessence is small:The spirit and good extract of my heartComes to about the many hundredth part.Yet Lord restore thine image, heare my call:And though my hard heart scarce to thee can grone,Remember that thou once didst write in stone.