---

Henry King - A Penitential Hymne
Work rating: Low

Hearken O God unto a Wretches cryes 
Who low dejected at thy footstool lies. 
Let not the clamour of my heinous sin 
Drown my requests, which strive to enter in 
At those bright gates, which alwaies open stand 
To such as beg remission at thy hand. 
Too well I know, if thou in rigour deal 
I can nor pardon ask, nor yet appeal: 
To my hoarse voice, heaven will no audience grant, 
But deaf as brass, and hard as adamant 
Beat back my words; therefore I bring to thee 
A gracious Advocate to plead for me. 
What though my leprous soul no Jordan can 
Recure, nor flouds of the lav`d Ocean 
Make clean? yet from my Saviours bleeding side 
Two large and medicinable rivers glide. 
Lord, wash me where those streams of life abound, 
And new Bethesdaes flow from ev`ry wound. 
If I this precious Lather may obtain, 
I shall not then despair for any stain; 
I need no Gileads balm, nor oyl, nor shall 
I for the purifying Hyssop call: 
My spots will vanish in His purple flood, 
And Crimson there turn white, though washt with blood. 
See Lord! with broken heart and bended knee, 
How I address my humble suit to Thee; 
O give that suit admittance to thy ears 
Which floats to thee not in my words but tears: 
And let my sinful soul this mercy crave 
Before I fall into the silent grave.
Source
The script ran 0.001 seconds.