The Penitent sonnes teares for his murdered mother
Tyndale, Nathaniel., Musket, Anne.
The penitent Sonnes Teares, for his murdered Mother.
HE that has taught ten thousand tongues to speake
That horrid sinne, that his sad heart doth breake,
Now scarce can speake himselfe; for Woe denyes
A begging Voyce, and giues me begging Eyes.
Me thinkes the Shaddow of this reall thing
That wretched Mee into this World did bring,
Stands poynting now, (my guilty Soule to shake)
To th' bloudy wound, this bloudy hand did make,
That wound's a Mouth; her dead dry bloud, a Tongue,
That sayes, 'mongst all, the most-forsaken throng,
That haue their liues branded with bloud and shame,
J stand the formost; haue the foulest name.
Mee thinkes, I heare her tell mee, those pale Hands
Haue gently lapt mee in my swathing bands;
Haue dandled mee; and, when I learn'd to goe,
Haue propt mee, weake, till I too-strong did grow.
Me thinkes I see Her poynt vpon her brest,
And tell me, there, I haue bin vs'd to feast;
Thence oft haue fetcht my liuing; from her bloud,
By Heau'n conuerted to my wholesome food.
And last, me thinkes, Shee poynts vpon that place,
Where all my parts had their due forme and grace,
With these sad words; Behold th' vnhappy wombe,
Which I could wish, Heauen once had made thy Tombe.
A heauy wish; yet such a wish indeed,
As I my selfe now, (with a Heart doth bleed)
Could sadly breathe; 'cause that vntimely birth
Brought not a Man, but Monster to the Earth.
From that deepe Dungeon, where, in bands I lye,
And from a depth, more deepe, I call and cry:
The depth of anguish; which thy sight most pure;
Can onely looke on; and thy mercies, cure.
O cure my soule; 'tis that great worke, I know,
For which (so High) thou didst descend so low:
Then, great Phisician, Helpe mee; Heale my wound;
Great Shepheard, Seeke mee; Let my Soule be found.
That heauenly inuitation, made to those,
Whose many sinnes load them with many woes,
Is made to mee: For onely sinne doth griue mee,
And not my death; Then (blessed Lord) relieue mee.
Lord, let my teares be, to my leprous sinne
As Iordan was, to Naamans leprous skinne;
And wash it cleane: But, ô! so great a good
Ne'r came by Water, 'tis a worke of Bloud.
A worke of Bloud: the bloud of that pure Lambe,
That to purge sinne, and saue poore sinners came;
That precious Bloud: O Lord, that Bloud of thine,
Apply to mee, to purge this bloud of mine.
So, as of GOD I begge, I begge of Men,
Their zealous prayers t'assist mee: And agen,
To quit that Goodnesse, this Reward I'le giue,
I'le pray, my Death may teach all them to Liue.