XLIX. Sir Henry Wotton

OH, thou great Power! in whom I move,

For whom I live, to whom I die,

Behold me through thy beams of love,

Whilst on this couch of tears I lie;

And cleanse my sordid soul within,

By thy Christ’s blood, the bath of sin.

No hallowed oyls, no grains I need,

No rags of saints, no purging fire;

One rosie drop from David’s seed

Was worlds of seas to quench thine ire:

O precious ransome! which once paid,

That Consummatum est was said;

And said by Him that said no more,

But seal’d it with his sacred breath:

Thou, then, that has dispong’d my score,

And dying wast the death of Death,

Be to me now, on thee I call,

My life, my strength, my joy, my all!