In this trembling shadow, cast
from those boughes which thy winds shake,
Farre from humane troubles plac’d,
Songs to the Lord would I make,
Darknesse from my minde then take,
For thy rites... Читать дальше

In this trembling shadow, cast
from those boughes which thy winds shake,
Farre from humane troubles plac’d,
Songs to the Lord would I make,
Darknesse from my minde then take,
For thy rites none may begin,
Till they feele thy light within.

As I sing, sweete flowers Ile strow,
from the fruitfull vallies brought:
Praising him by whom they grow,
him that heaven and earth hath wrought,
him that all things framde of nought,
Him that all for man did make,
But made man for his owne sake.

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