V. Barnaby Barnes

DEARE David’s Sonne! whom thy forefathers have

In psalmes and prophecies unborne foretolde,—

That hell in adamantine chaines should holde,

And thence poore sinners both inlarge and save,

Whom former blindness to damnation gave:

Mee swallowed in the gulfe of sinne behold;

A lambe amongst wild wolves, once of thy fold,

Whom Sathan now doth for his portion crave;

Deare Sonne of David! helpe: yet helpe with speede.

Thy wounds bleed fresh in my remembrance yet,

Which blessed wounds did for offenders bleede:

These wounds I will not in distresse forget;

For all cheefe hope of my salvation grounds

In nectre of these comfortable wounds.