The Sinner

 Lord, how I am all ague, when I seek
What I have treasur'd in my memory! 
Since, if my soul make even with the week, 
Each seventh note by right is due to thee.

I find there quarries of pil'd vanities, 
But shreds of holiness, that dare not venture
To show their face, since cross 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 heart
Comes to about the many hundredth part.

Yet Lord restore thine image, hear my call: 
And though my hard heart scarce to thee can groan, 
Remember that thou once didst write in stone.

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