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In the black dismal dungeon of despair (1688) Z. 190

In the black dismal dungeon of despair

In the black dismal dungeon of despair,
Pin’d with tormenting care,
Wrack’d with my fears,
Drown’d in my tears,
With dreadful expectation of my doom
And certain horrid judgement soon to come.
Lord, here I lie,
Lost to all hope of liberty,
Hence never to remove
But by a miracle of Love,
Which I scarce dare hope for, or expect,
Being guilty of so long, so great neglect.
Fool that I was, worthy a sharper rod,
To slight thy courting, O my God!
For thou did’st woo, intreat, and grieve,
Did’st beg me to be happy and to live;
But I would not; I chose to dwell
With Death, far from thee,
Too near to Hell.
But is there no redemption, no relief?
Jesu! Thou sav’d’st a Magdalen, a thief;
O Jesu! Thy mercy, Lord, once more advance.
O give me such a glance
As Peter had; thy sweet, kind, chiding look
Will change my heart, as it did melt that rock;
Look on me, sweet Jesu, as thou did’st on him!
’Tis more than to create, thus, to redeem.

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Henry Purcell (c. 10 September 1659 – 21 November 1695) was an English composer. It is said that he began composing at nine years old. As an adult, he became organist at Westminster Abbey, and later the Chapel Royal.

Information from Wikipedia. For the full article, read here.

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