The Lamentation

Jan. 18, 1660-1

tor Sin afflicting the Sinner; especially by the grievous sufferings of Friends, With the relief of the self-condemning soul.

O mercy, mercy, mercy! O my God! Must I feel nothing but thy smarting rod? Must I be daily on the rack of fears, And have no drink to quench my thirst but tears? Where is the spring that feeds this bitter stream? That stops not, either when I wake or dream? These worms of fear and grief, whose food I am. Into the world as brethren with me came. Youthful diversions cast them once asleep, But light awaken ‘d them to bite more deep.

Since then, I lived between thy book and rod; And in thy school of discipline abode: Sometimes thy gentle twigs touch ‘d but the skin; Sometimes thy sharper strokes did enter in: Most of them fell but on my outward part: But now they pierce, they wound, they kill my heart. Spare Lord! I sigh, I groan, I weep, 1 cry ‘. 0 spare! before I bleed, I sink, I die!

0 spare the heart! or wound none but mine own! And let me sigh, and weep, and mourn alone!

It ’s I that sinn’d: these sheep what have they done?

1 sinn’d but with one heart: O break but one! Shall I that have extoird thy people’s joys, And told them of the sweetness of thy ways; Now by my plaints and dolor make them think, Thou giv’st us gall and vinegar to drink?

Set me not as a spectacle of wrath, To frighten comers from the holy path. Be silent, flesh! my God is wise and just; Hast thou not sinned? stoop and kiss the dust. If passion did not blind thee, thou might’st see, Justice is good, even when it falls on thee. It is not causeless, if he pierce the heart: He doth but choose the foul, the guilty part. Had not the door been open’d first to sin, Terrors and sorrows could not have got in: If it have room for thoughts of pride and lust; That trouble should dwell with them, is but just. Where should the tent be put, but in the wound? We cleanse the ulcerous parts, and not the sound, Where should Jehovah’s battering cannons play, But at the fortress where his enemy lay?

Thence came the viperous brood; there was the root Of all the bitter, poisonous, deadly fruit. There God should have been entertain ‘d in love. His will as end and spring each wheel should move. But how unkindly was he there abused? His tender love and healing grace refused? Oft have I shut the door when he hath come; I play’d, or slept, or would not be at home. Should God be slighted by a stubborn heart, And not rebuke its folly by its smart? I sinn’d and laugh ‘d; I lightly pass’d it over Should God do so, and not his wrath discover? Just is the Lord: my sin hath found me out. I find his threat ‘nings true beyond all doubt: What have I done! all’s now to conscience known: Its deep remorse tells me what I have done. What have I done! it’s graven all in stone: This heart of flint feels now what I have done. What have 1 done! my pained flesh and bone, Cry out with anguish, O what have I done! What have I done I 1 see, T feel, I groan! The sad effects proclaim, what I have done. What have I done! my friends’ distress and moan, Cry to me night and day, this thou hast done. Melt sinful heart, and spare not! welcome grief! Away delights! I’ll none of your relief. Shew me the wilderness, the secret cell, Where grief and I may still together dwell. Where hills and woods may echo all my groans, And hearers may not interrupt my moans! Where mortal eyes may see no more the face, Which folly hath confounded with disgrace.

Baxter’s poems. Ql

Where I may die alive, and live in death; And spend in lamentation all my breath. Seeing deceitful, heart-tormenting sin So cunningly is crept and woven in: Break it in pieces, turn this heart to dust; Melt out the dross; purge out the filth and rust. Spare not the lance: or if that will do good, Drench it in tears: stop not this brinish flood!

Jesus. Peace, troubled soul! J ’11 wash it in my blood. Woman, why weepest thou? was the first word, After his rising, spoken by our Lord, To which his angel’s preface did accord.*