I know it is my sinne, which locks thine eares,
And bindes thy hands!
Out-crying my requests, drowning my tears;
Or else the chilnesse of my faint demands.
But as cold hands are angrie with the fire,
And mend it still;
So I do lay the want of my desire,
Not on my sinnes, or coldnesse, but thy will.
Yet heare, O God, onely for his bloud's sake,
Which pleads for me;
For though sinnes plead too, yet like stones they make
His bloud's sweet current much more loud to be.
