A Godly Discourse Poem by Humfrey Gifford

Like as the wight farre banished from his soyle,
In countrey strange, opprest with grief & pain,
Doth nothing way his long and weary toyle,
So that ye may come to his home againe:
And not accounts of perils great at hand,
For to attayne his owne desired land.


Such is the state of vs thy seruantes all,
(Most gratious God) that here on earth do dwell:
We banisht were through Adams cursed fall,
From place of blisse, euen to the pit of hell:
Our vice and sinnes, as markes and signes wee haue,
Which still we beare, and shal doe to our graue.


When that all hope of remedy was past,
For our redresse when nothing could be founde:
Thine onely sonne, thou didst send downe at last,
To salue this sore, and heale our deadly wound:
Yet did they please to vse him as a meane,
Us banisht wights for to call home agayne.


And for because thy Godhead thought it meete,
The sacred booke of thy most holy wil,
Thou didst vs leaue a lanterne to our feete,
To light our steppes, in this our voyage still,
Directing vs what to eschew or take:
All this thou doest, for vs vile sinners sake.


Graunt vs sound fayth, that we take stedfast holde,
On Christ his death which did our raunsome pay,
So shall we shun the daungers manifold,
Which would vs let, and cause vs run astray.
The wicked world, the flesh, the Diuell and all,
Are stumbling blockes, ech howre to make vs fall.


This Dungeon vile of Sathan is the nest,
A Denne of dole, a sinke of deadly sinne.
Heauen is the hauen in which we hope to rest,
Death is the dore whereby we enter in.
Sweete Sauiour, graunt that so wee liue to die,
That after death, we liue eternally.