V. Barnaby Barnes

UNTO my spirit lend an angel’s wing,

By which it might mount to that place of rest,

Where Paradise may mee releeve, opprest;

Lend to my tongue an angel’s voice to sing

Thy praise, my comfort—and for ever bring

My notes thereof from the bright East to West.

Thy mercy lend unto my soule distrest,

Thy grace unto my wits:—then shall the sling

Of righteousnesse that monster Sathan kill,

Who with dispaire my deare salvation dared;

And, like the Philistine, stoode breathing still

Proud threats against my soule, for heaven prepared.

At length, I like an angell shall appeare

In spotless white, an angel’s crowne to weare.