Almighty Judge, how shall poor wretches brook
Thy dreadful look,
Able a heart of iron to appal,
When thou shalt call
For every man's peculiar book?
What others mean to do, I know not well;
Yet I hear tell,
That some will turn thee to some leaves therein
So void of sin,
That they in merit shall excel.
But I resolve, when thou shalt call for mine,
That to decline,
And thrust a Testament into thy hand:
Let that be scann'd.
There thou shalt find my faults are thine.
by George Herbert 1593-1633
source: The Poetical Works Of George Herbert, ed. George Gilfillan. Edinburgh: James Nichol, 1853
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