To Heaven

Good, and great God, can I not think of thee, But it must, straight, my melancholy bee? Is it interpreted in mee disease, That, laden with my sinnes. I seeke for ease? O, be thou witnesse, that the reines dost know, And hearts of all, if I be sad for show, And judge mee after: if I dare pretend To ought but grace, or ayme at other end. As thou art all, so be thou all to mee, First, midst, and last, converted one, and three; My faith, my hope, my love: and in this state, My judge, my witnesse, and my advocate. Where have I been this while exil'd from thee? And whither rapt, now thou but stoup'st to mee? Dwell, dwell here still: O, being every-where, How can I doubt to finde thee ever, here? I know my state, both full of shame, and scorne, Conceiv'd in sinne, and unto labour borne, Standing with feare, and must with horror fall, And destin'd unto judgement, after all. I feele my griefes too, and there scarce is ground, Upon my flesh t'inflict another wound. Yet dare I not complaine, or wish for death With holy Paul, lest it be thought the breath Of Discontent; or that these prayers bee For wearinesse of life, not love of thee.