To Heaven

Good and great God, can I not think of thee

But it must straight my melancholy be?

Is it interpreted in me disease

That, laden with my sins, I seek for ease?

Oh be thou witness, that the reins dost know

And hearts of all, if I be sad for show,

And judge me after; if I dare pretend

To ought but grace or aim at other end.

As thou art all, so be thou all to me,

First, midst, and last, converted one, and three;

My faith, my hope, my love; and in this state

My judge, my witness, and my advocate.

Where have I been this while exil'd from thee?

And whither rap'd, now thou but stoop'st to me?

Dwell, dwell here still. O, being everywhere,

How can I doubt to find thee ever here?

I know my state, both full of shame and scorn,

Conceiv'd in sin, and unto labour borne,

Standing with fear, and must with horror fall,

And destin'd unto judgment, after all.

I feel my griefs too, and there scarce is ground

Upon my flesh t' inflict another wound.

Yet dare I not complain, or wish for death

With holy Paul, lest it be thought the breath

Of discontent; or that these prayers be

For weariness of life, not love of thee. 

 

--Ben Jonson