Since blood is fittest, Lord, to write Thy sorrows in, and bloody fight; My heart hath store, write there, wherein One box doth lie both ink and sin: 25 That when sin spies so many foes, Thy whips, thy nails, thy wounds, thy woes, All come to lodge there, sin may say, No room for me, and fly away. Sin being gone, O fill the place, 30 And keep possession with thy grace; Lest sin take courage and return, And all the writings blot or burn.
