XLIII. Walter Devereux, Earl of Essex

O HEAUENLY God! O Father dere!

Cast doune thy tender eye

Upon a wretche, that prostrate here

Before thy trone doeth lye.

O powre thy precious oyle of grace

Into my wounded harte:

O let the dropps of mercie swage

The rigour of my smarte.

My fainting soule, suppressed sore

With carefull clogge of sinne,

In humble sort submitts itself

Thy mercie for to winne.

Graunt mercie then, O Saviour swete,

To me moste wofull thrall,

Whose mornfull crie to thee, O Lorde,

Doeth still for mercie call.

Thy blessed will I haue despised

Vpon a stubborne minde,

And to the swaie of worldly thyngs

Myself I haue enclinde.

Forgettyng heauen and heauenly powers,

Where God and saincts do dwel,

My life had likt to tread the path

That leads the waie to hell.

But nowe, my Lorde, my lodestarre bright,

I will no more doe so:

To thinke vpon my former life

My harte doeth melt for woe.

Alas! I sigh, alas! I sobbe,

Alas! I doe repent,

That euer my licencious will

So wickedly was bent.

Sith thus therefore with yernfull plain

I doe thy mercie craue,

O Lorde, for thy great mercies’ sake

Let me thy mercie haue.

Restore to life the wretched soule

That els is like to dye;

So shall my voyce vnto thy name

Syng praise eternally.

Now blessed be the Father first,

And blessed be the Sonne;

And blessed be the Holie Ghoste,

By whom all thyngs are doen.

Blesse me, O blessed Trinitie,

With thy eternall grace,

That after death my soule maie haue

In heauen a dwellyng-place.

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