Unclean, Unclean: My Lord, Undone, all vile
Yea all Defild: What shall thy Servant doe?
Unfit for thee: not fit for holy Soile,
Nor for Communion of Saints below.
A bag of botches, Lump of Loathsomeness:
Defild by Touch, by Issue: Leproust flesh.
Thou wilt have all that enter do thy fold
Pure, Cleane, and bright, Whiter than whitest Snow
Better refin'd than most refined Gold:
I am not so: but fowle: What shall I doe?
Shall thy Church Doors be shut, and shut out mee?
Shall not Church fellowship my portion bee?
How can it be? Thy Churches do require
Pure Holiness: I am all filth, alas!
Shall I defile them, tumbled thus in mire?
Or they mee cleanse before I current pa**?
If thus they do, Where is the Niter bright
And Sope they offer mee to wash me White?
The Brisk Red heifer's Ashes, when calcin'd,
Mixt all in running Water, is too Weake
To wash away my Filth: The Dooves a**ign'd
Burnt, and Sin Offerings neer do the feate
But as they Emblemize the Fountain Spring
Thy Blood, my Lord, set ope to wash off Sin.
Oh! richest Grace! Are thy Rich Veans then tapt
To ope this Holy Fountain (boundless Sea)
For Sinners here to lavor off (all sapt
With Sin) their Sins and Sinfulness away?
In this bright Chrystall Crimson Fountain flows
What washeth whiter, than the Swan or Rose.
Oh! wash mee, Lord, in this Choice Fountain, White
That I may enter, and not sully here
Thy Church, whose floore is pav'de with Graces bright
And hold Church fellowship with Saints most cleare.
My Voice all sweet, with their melodious layes
Shall make sweet Musick blossom'd with thy praise.