A17716:150
Sermons of John Calvin, upon the song that Hezekiah made after he had been…Sermons of Iohn Caluin, vpon the songe that Ezechias made after he had bene…
Sermons of John Calvin, upon the song that Hezekiah made after he had been sick and afflicted by the hand of God, contained in the 38. chapter of Isaiah. Translated out of French into English. 1560.Sermons of Iohn Caluin, vpon the songe that Ezechias made after he had bene sicke and afflicted by the hand of God, conteyned in the 38. chapiter of Esay. Translated out of Frenche into Englishe. 1560.
London: printed by John Day, 1560London: printed by Iohn Day, 1560
Modern spelling is a reading aid: the words are the author’s, only the spelling is modernized. Original shows the page as printed, with the transcription marks.
¶The preface, expressing the passioned mind of the penitent sinner.
¶The preface, expressing the passioned minde of the penitent sinner.
The heinous gilt of my forsaken ghost So threats, alas, unto my febled sprite Deserved death, and (that me grieveth most) Still stand so sixth before my dazzled sight The loathsome filth of my distained life, The mighty wrath of mine offended Lord, My Lord whose wrath is sharper than the knife, And deeper wounds than double edged sword, That▪ as the dimmed and fordulled eyen Full fraught with tears & more & more oppressed With growing streams of the distilled brine Sent from the furnace of a griefful breast, Can not enjoy the comfort of the light, Nor find the way wherein to walk aright:
THe hainous gylt of my forsaken ghost So threates, alas, vnto my febled sprite Deserued death, and (that me greueth most) Still stand so fixt before my daseld sight The lothesome filthe of my disteined life, The mighty wrath of myne offended Lorde, My Lord whos wrath is sharper than the knife, And deper woundes than doble edged sworde, That▪ as the dimmed and fordulled eyen Full fraught with teares & more & more opprest With growing streames of the distilled bryne Sent from the fornace of a grefefull brest, Can not enioy the comfort of the light, Nor finde the waye wherin to walke aright:
So I blind wretch, whom Gods inflamed tree with piercing stroke hath thrown unto the ground, Amid my sins still grovelling in the mire, Find not the way that other oft have found, Whom cheerful glimpse of gods abounding grace Hath oft relieved and oft with shining light Hath brought to joy out of the ugly place, Where I in dark of everlasting night Bewail my woeful and unhappy case, And fret my dying soul with gnawing pain. Yet blind, alas, I grope about for grace. While blind for grace I grope about in vain, My fainting breath I gather up and strain, Mercy, mercy to cry and cry again.