Good and great God, can I not think of thee
 But it must straight my melancholy be?
 Is it interpreted in me disease
 That, laden with my sins, I seek for ease?
 Oh be thou witness, that the reins dost know
 And hearts of all, if I be sad for show,
 And judge me after; if I dare pretend
 To ought but grace or aim at other end.
 As thou art all, so be thou all to me,
 First, midst, and last, converted one, and three;
 My faith, my hope, my love; and in this state
 My judge, my witness, and my advocate.
 Where have I been this while exil'd from thee?
 And whither rap'd, now thou but stoop'st to me?
 Dwell, dwell here still. O, being everywhere,
 How can I doubt to find thee ever here?
 I know my state, both full of shame and scorn,
 Conceiv'd in sin, and unto labour borne,
 Standing with fear, and must with horror fall,
 And destin'd unto judgment, after all.
 I feel my griefs too, and there scarce is ground
 Upon my flesh t' inflict another wound.
 Yet dare I not complain, or wish for death
 With holy Paul, lest it be thought the breath
 Of discontent; or that these prayers be
 For weariness of life, not love of thee.