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Poem by George Herbert
Lord, I confess my sin is great; Great is my sin. Oh! gently treat With thy quick flow'r, thy momentany bloom; Whose life still pressing Is one undressing, A steady aiming at a tomb. Man's age is two hours' work, or three: Each day doth round about us see. Thus are we to delights: but we are all To sorrows old, If life be told From what life feeleth, Adam's fall. O let thy height of mercy then Compassionate short-breathed men. Cut me not off for my most foul transgression: I do confess My foolishness; My God, accept of my confession. Sweeten at length this bitter bowl, Which thou hast pour'd into my soul; Thy wormwood turn to health, winds to fair weather: For if thou stay, I and this day, As we did rise, we die together. When thou for sin rebukest man, Forthwith he waxeth woe and wan: Bitterness fills our bowels; all our hearts Pine, and decay, And dropp away, And carry with them th'other parts. But thou wilt sin and grief destroy; That so the broken bones may joy, And tune together in a well-set song, Full of his praises, Who dead men raises; Fractures well cur'd make us more strong.
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