To His Angrie God

Through all the night

Thou dost me fright,

And hold'st mine eyes from sleeping;

And day by day,

My cup can say

My wine is mix'd with weeping.

Thou dost my bread

With ashes knead

Each evening and each morrow;

Mine eye and ear

Do see and hear

The coming in of sorrow.

Thy scourge of steel,

Ah me! I feel

Upon me beating ever:

While my sick heart

With dismal smart

Is disacquainted never.

Long, long, I'm sure,

This can't endure,

But in short time 'twill please Thee,

My gentle God,

To burn the rod,

Or strike so as to ease me.