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B. Barnes


Heavenly Messias, (sweet anointed King,

Whose glory round about the world doth reach,

Which every beast, plant, rock, and river teach,

And airy birds like Angels ever sing,

And every gale of wind in gusts doth bring,

And every man with reason ever preach),

Behold, behold that lamentable breach,

Which (my distresséd conscience to sting)

False spiteful Satan in my soul doth make:

Oh, (sweet Messias), lend some gracious oil

To cure that wound, e'en for Thy mercy's sake:

Lest (by that breach) Thy temple he despoil.

Help, help; my conscience thither him doth lead;

And he will come, if Thou bruise not his head.

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