Davids Ode Poem by Francis Sabie

O Great Creator of the starrie Pole,
and heauenly things
O mightie founder of the earthly mole,
chiefe king of Kings.
Whose gentle pardon euermore is nere,
To them which crie vnfaynedly with feare,
Distrest with sin,
I now begin,
To come to thee, O Lord giue eare,
O Lord look down fro thy chrystallin throne,
enuirond round,
With Seraphins, and Angels manie one,
thy praise who sound
Such fauour Lord on me vouchsafe to send,
As on thy chosen flock thou doest extend.
To thee alone
I make my mone.
Some pittie father on me send.
Remember Lord, that it is more then need,
to send redresse,

My sore will grow (vnlesse thou help with speed)
remedilesse.
Therfore in mercie looke down from aboue,
And visit me with thy heart-joying loue.
Alas, I see
No cause in me
Which vnto pitie may thee moue.
With sinne I only haue offended thee,
O Lord my God,
And therwithall I purchas'd haue to me
thine heauie rod
The waight of it doth presse me verie sore,
And brings me wel nigh to dispaire his doore.
Alas I shame
To tell the same
It is before thee euermore.
And this is not first time I sinn'd alas,
by many moe
Within the wombe in sin conceiu'd I was,
Borne was I so.
And since that day I neuer yet did cease,
From time to time thy highnesse to displease.
My life hath bin
A race of sin
Me with thy comfort somewhat ease.
O why did I offend thy glorious Grace
so hainously?
Why fear'd I not the presence of thy face
who stoodest by?
Because I should acknowledge thee most just,

And in mine owne vprightnes shuld not trust
Fraile is my fleshs
I must confesse,
And nought is it but sinne and dust.
If thou shalt me asperge with sprinkling grasse,
or Hysope greene
As Chrystall pure, or as the shining glasse,
I shall be cleane,
And if thou wilt me wash with water cleare,
More white then Scythan snow I shall appeare
Then whitest snow
which wind doth blow
From place to place both farre and neere.
My mind O Lord, infectious and foule,
make cleane and pure
Into thy hands I humbly giue my soule
to heale and cure.
Out of thy booke all mine offences blot,
And with thy blood quite take away my spot.
So shall my hart
Be free from smart,
And mine offences quite forgot.
Turn back thy face which al things doth behold
from heauens vault
Least thou espie my trespasse manifold,
and hainous fault.
My faults, which are in number many more
Then little sands which are vpon the shore,
refraine thine ire,

I thee desire,
And also heale my deadly sore.
Within my breast (O Lord) an humble spirit,
do thou create
And of thy comfort doe not me disherit,
I thee intreat.
Let me enjoy the sun-shine of thy face,
Take not from me the solace of thy grace,
The holy Ghost
My comfort most.
Let me retaine in any case.
My tongue vntie, my lips (O Lord) resolue,
thou art the key
So will my tongue thy mercie great reuolue,
from day to day.
Then shall the wicked learne by mine example,
To keep thy statutes which be sweet and ample
And seeing me,
shall turne to thee,
And in the right way learne to trample.
Wouldst thou haue bin with sacrifice content,
much fat of Rammes,
Much incense sweet on thee wold I haue spent
and blood of Lambes
But thou (O God) therto hast no respect,
A broken heart thou neuer wilt reject
That sacrifice
Is of most price,
That onlie with thee takes effect.

Be gentle Lord to thy Sionian towne,
bow downe thy face,
And on thy Shalem send thy mercie downe,
and louing grace
Reedifie her bulwarkes like to fall,
And vp againe build her decaying wall.
Then will I praise
Thy name alwayes.
And giue burnt offrings therewithall.
Thus did the Psalmist warble out his plaints,
And ceaseth not from day to day to mone,
His heart with anguish of his sorrowe faints.
And still he kneels before his makers throne.
At midnight sends he manie a grieuous grone.
So did his God in mercie on him looke.
And all his sinnes did race out of his booke.