Mercy Turns Her Back To The Unmerciful.

My Soul, What's Lighter Than A Feather? Wind. Than Wind? The Fire. And What Than Fire? The Mind. What's Lighter Than The Mind? A Thought. Than Thought? This Bubble World. What Than This Bubble? Nought.

Mark, How The Ready Hands Of Death Prepare: His Bow Is Bent, And He Hath Notch'd His Dart; He Aims, He Levels At Thy Slumb'ring Heart: The Wound Is Posting, O Be Wise, Beware.

Tis Not, To Cry God Mercy, Or To Sit And Droop, Or To Confess That Thou Hast Fail'd: 'tis To Bewail The Sins Thou Didst Commit: And Not Commit Those Sins Thou Hast Bewail' D. He That Bewails And Not Forsakes Them Too; Confesses Rather What He Means To Do.

My Soul, The Seas Are Rough, And Thou A Stranger In These False Coasts; O Keep Aloof; There's Danger; Cast Forth Thy Plummet; See, A Rock Appears; Thy Ships Want Sea-room; Make It With Thy Tears.

Is Not This Lily Pure? What Fuller Can Procure A White So Perfect, Spotless Clear As In This Flower Doth Appear?