made me, and shall Thy works decay?
now, for now my hand doth haste,
I runne to
death, and death meets me as fast,
And all my
pleasures are like yesterday;
As due by
many titles I resigne
to Thee, O God, first I was made
and for Thee, and when I was decay’d
bought that, the which was Thine;
I am Thy
sonne, made with Thy selfe to shine.
But who am
I, that dare dispute with Thee
Oh! Of thine onely worthy blood,
in it my sinnes black memorie;
remember them, some claime as debt,
it mercy if Thou wilt forget.
J. The Complete Poetry and Selected Prose. New York: The Modern Library.