Songs of Sion Set for the ioy of gods deere ones, vvho sitt here by the brookes of this vvorlds Babel, & vveepe vvhen they thinke on Hierusalem vvhich is on highe. By W.L.

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Title: Songs of Sion Set for the ioy of gods deere ones, vvho sitt here by the brookes of this vvorlds Babel, & vveepe vvhen they thinke on Hierusalem vvhich is on highe. By W.L.
Author: Loe, William, d. 1645.
Publication: [Hamburg :: S.n.,; 1620 (24 Jan.)]
Rights/Permissions: To the extent possible under law, the Text Creation Partnership has waived all copyright and related or neighboring rights to this keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above, according to the terms of the CC0 1.0 Public Domain Dedication (http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/zero/1.0/). This waiver does not extend to any page images or other supplementary files associated with this work, which may be protected by copyright or other license restrictions. Please go to http://www.textcreationpartnership.org/ for more information.
Link to this Item: http://name.umdl.umich.edu/A06194.0001.001
Cite this Item: "Songs of Sion Set for the ioy of gods deere ones, vvho sitt here by the brookes of this vvorlds Babel, & vveepe vvhen they thinke on Hierusalem vvhich is on highe. By W.L." In the digital collection Early English Books Online. https://name.umdl.umich.edu/A06194.0001.001. University of Michigan Library Digital Collections. Accessed June 14, 2025.

WHat ayles thee o my soule, my deare, Such face, such feare to shevve? Novve death doe come to cite thee home Is all thy faith, but devve

Is death soe fearce, soe fell, to eies, To thoughts that vvas soe free; It is a shame to thee my soule Thou dost noe more Christ see.

Where is thy faith? in vvords thou couldst Call oft for death in life Is all but talke? is all but smoke? Where is thy hope so rife?

Hath thy svveete Christ novv sent for thee And art thou loth to goe? Rouze vp thy selfe for shame o soule And doe not serue him soe.

O lord raise vp this hart of mine
That faints, & droopes in death
O that I might thy cup once tast,
And liue in thy svveete breath.

The spright vvould come, but fles is vvea•…•… Lord helpe this guest of thine, And rid her from this flesh of sinne Which is a broode of mine.

I come to thee, o lord I come Streach forth thine hand to me▪ O death, o graue vvhere is thy sting My crovvene, my god I see.