A paraphrase upon the divine poems. By George Sandys

About this Item

Title
A paraphrase upon the divine poems. By George Sandys
Author
Sandys, George, 1578-1644.
Publication
London :: [Printed by John Legatt, sold] at the Bell in St. Pauls Church-yard [i.e. the shop of Andrew Hebb],
M.DC.XXXVIII. [1638]
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Link to this Item
http://name.umdl.umich.edu/A11474.0001.001
Cite this Item
"A paraphrase upon the divine poems. By George Sandys." In the digital collection Early English Books Online. https://name.umdl.umich.edu/A11474.0001.001. University of Michigan Library Digital Collections. Accessed June 23, 2025.

Pages

PSALME XXXVIII.
As the 4.
NOT in thy wrath against me rise; Nor in thy fury, Lord, chastise: Thy Arrowes wound, Naile to the Ground, Thy hand upon me lies.
No Limb from paine and anguish free; Because I have incensed thee: Nor rest can take, My bones so ake; Such sinne abounds in me.
Like Billowes they my head transcend; Beneath their heavy load I bend: My Ulcers swell, Corrupt, and smell; Of Folly the sad end.

Page 46

Perplext in mind I pine away, And mourning wast the tedious day; My Flesh no more Then all one Sore; All parts at once decay.
Much broken; all my strength o'rethrowne; Through anguish of my Soule I groane. Lord, thou dost see My thoughts and mee; My Sighs to thee are knowne.
My sad Heart pants, my nerves relent, My Sight growes dim; and to augment My miseries, All my Allies And Friends themselves absent.
[Part. 2] Who seeke my life, their Snares extend; Their wicked thoughts on Mischiefe bend: Calumniate, And lye in wait To bring me to my end.
But I as deafe to them appeare, As mute, as if I tonguelesse were: My passion rul'd, Like one that could At all not speake nor heare.
Because my hopes on thee relye: My God, I said, O heare my cry; Lest they should boast, Who hate me most, And in my ruine joy.
For O! I droop, with struggling spent: My thoughts are on my sorrowes bent. My sinnes excesse I will confesse; In showres of teares repent.
My foes are full of strength and pride; Who causelesse hate, are multipli'd: Who good with ill Repay; would kill, Because I just abide.

Page 47

Depart not, Lord; O pity take! Nor me in my extremes forsake! Salvation Is thine alone; Hast to my succour make.
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