A Complaint Of A Sinner Poem by Humfrey Gifford

O Lord most deare, wh many a teare, lamenting, lameting,
I fall before thy face,
And for ech crime, done ere this time, repenting, repenting
Most humbly call for grace.
Through wanton will, I must confesse,
Thy precepts still I doe transgresse,
The world with his vayne pleasure,
Bewitcht my senses so,
That I could find no leasure,
My vices to forgoe.
I graunt I haue through my deserte,
Deserud great plagues and bitter smart.


But yet sweet God, doe stay thy rod, forgeue me, forgeue me,
Which doe thine ayde implore,
O cease thine ire, I thee desire, beleeue me, beleue me,
I will so sinne no more.
But still shall pray thy holy name,
In the right way my steppes to frame,
So shall I not displease thee,
Which art my Lord of might.
My heart and tongue shall prayse thee,
Most humbly day and night.
I will delight continually,
Thy name to lawde and magnify.


With sighes & sobs, my heart it throbs, remembring, remembring
The fraylty of my youth,
I ran a race, deuoyd of grace, not rendring, not rendring
Due reuerence to thy truth.
Such care I cast on earthly toyes,
That nought I past for heauenly ioyes,
But now it me repenteth,
My heart doeth bleede for woe,
Which inwardly lamenteth,
That euer it sinned so.
With many a sigh, and many a grone,
O Lord to thee I make my mone.


Though furious fires of fond desires, allure me, allure me,
From thee so wander wyde:
Let pitifull eyes, and moystened eyes, procure thee, procure thee
To be my Lorde and guyde.
As Scripture sayth, thou doest not craue,
A sinners death, but wouldest him saue:
That sinfull wretch am I O Lorde,
Which would repent and liue,
With ceaslesse plaints I cry Lorde,
Thy pardon to me geue.
O Lord for thy sweete Iesu sake,
Doe not shut vp thy mercie gate.


Mercy, mercy, mercy, graunt me I pray thee, I pray thee,
Graunt mercy louing Lorde,
Let not the Diuel which meanes me euill, betray me, betray mee,
Protect me with thy worde.
So shall my heart find sweete reliefe,
Which now feeles smart and bitter griefe,
O Lord, I doe request thee,
To guyde my steppes so well,
That when death shall arest me,
My soule with thee may dwell
In heauen aboue, where Angels sing,
Continuall prayse, to thee theyr king.