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and cometh as short of the truth it self as the picture of the Sun in a table, doth of the greatnesse and brightnesse of it in its own Orbe) should we not finde it necessary to cry out, Take away all iniquitie ? this sicknesse out of my soul, this sword, this nayle, this poysoned arrow out of my heart, this Dagger of Ehud out of my belly, this milstone, this mountain from off my back, these stings and terrors, these flames and Furies out of my Conscience? Lord, my wounds stinke, my lips quiver, my knees tremble, my belly rots, I am feeble, |
and comes as short of the truth it self as the picture of the Sun in a table, does of the greatness and brightness of it in its own Orb) should we not find it necessary to cry out, Take away all iniquity? this sickness out of my soul, this sword, this nail, this poisoned arrow out of my heart, this Dagger of Ehud out of my belly, this millstone, this mountain from off my back, these stings and terrors, these flames and Furies out of my Conscience? Lord, my wounds stink, my lips quiver, my knees tremble, my belly rots, I am feeble, |
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