Lord, I confess my sin is great; 
Great is my sin. Oh! gently treat
With thy quick flow'r, thy momentany bloom; 
Whose life still pressing
Is one undressing, 
A steady aiming at a tomb.

Man's age is two hours' work, or three: 
Each day doth round about us see.
Thus are we to delights: but we are all
To sorrows old, 
If life be told
From what life feeleth, Adam's fall.

O let thy height of mercy then
Compassionate short-breathed men.
Cut me not off for my most foul transgression: 
I do confess 
My foolishness; 
My God, accept of my confession.

Sweeten at length this bitter bowl, 
Which thou hast pour'd into my soul; 
Thy wormwood turn to health, winds to fair weather: 
For if thou stay, 
I and this day, 
As we did rise, we die together.

When thou for sin rebukest man, 
Forthwith he waxeth woe and wan: 
Bitterness fills our bowels; all our hearts
Pine, and decay, 
And dropp away, 
And carry with them th'other parts.

But thou wilt sin and grief destroy; 
That so the broken bones may joy, 
And tune together in a well-set song, 
Full of his praises, 
Who dead men raises; 
Fractures well cur'd make us more strong.