COme Lord, my head doth burn, my heart is sick,
             While thou dost ever, ever stay:
Thy long deferrings wound me to the quick,
             My spirit gaspeth night and day.
                       O show thy self to me,               
                       Or take me up to thee!

How canst thou stay, considering the pace
             The bloud did make, which thou didst waste ?
When I behold it trickling down thy face,
             I never saw thing make such haste,           
                       O show thy self to me,               
                       Or take me up to thee!

When man was lost, thy pitie lookt about
             To see what help in th' earth or skie:
But there was none; at least no help without:      
             The help did in thy bosome lie.
                       O show thy, &c.

There lay thy sonne: and must he leave that nest,
             That hive of sweetnesse, to remove      
Thraldome from those, who would not at a feast
             Leave one poore apple for thy love ?
                       O show thy, &c.

He did, he came: O my Redeemer deare,      
             After all this canst thou be strange ?1
So many yeares baptiz'd, and not appeare ?
             As if thy love could fail or change.
                       O show thy, &c.
             
Yet if thou stayest still, why must I stay ?2
             My God, what is this world to me,
This world of wo ? hence all ye clouds, away,
             Away; I must get up and see.
                       O show thy, &c.
                    
What is this weary world; this meat and drink,
             That chains us by the teeth so fast?
What is this woman-kinde, which I can wink
             Into a blacknesse and distaste ?                
                       O show thy, &c.

With one small sigh thou gav'st me th' other day
             I blasted all the joyes about me:
And scouling on them as they pin'd away,       
             Now come again, said I, and flout me.
                       O show thy self to me,               
                       Or take me up to thee!

Nothing but drought and dearth, but bush3 and brake,
             Which way so-e're I look, I see.           
Some may dream merrily, but when they wake,
             They dresse themselves and come to thee.
                       O show thy, &c.

We talk of harvests;4 there are no such things,   
             But when we leave our corn and hay:
There is no fruitfull yeare, but that which brings
             The last and lov'd, though dreadfull day.
                       O show thy, &c.

Oh loose this frame, this knot of man untie!
             That my free soul may use her wing,
Which now is pinion'd with mortalitie,
             As an intangled, hamper’d thing.
                       O show thy, &c.

What have I left, that I should stay and grone ?
             The most of me to heav’n is fled:
My thoughts and joyes are all packt up and gone,
             And for their old acquaintance plead.
                       O show thy, &c.

Come dearest Lord, passe not this holy season,5
             My flesh and bones and joynts do pray:
And ev'n my verse, when by the ryme and reason
             The word is, Stay, sayes ever, Come.
                       O show thy, &c.