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Sunday Sonnet.

Thy mercies praise, instede of sacrifice,
With thankfull minde so shall I yeld to thee.
For if it were delitefull in thine eyes,
Or hereby mought thy wrath appeased be,
Of cattell slayne and burnt with sacred flame
Vp to the heauen the vaprie smoke to send:
Of gyltlesse beastes, to purge my gilt and blame,
On altars broylde the sauour shold ascend,
To pease thy wrath. But thy swete sonne alone,
With one sufficing sacrifice for all
Appeaseth thee, and maketh the at one
With sinfull man, and hath repaird our fall.
That sacred hoste is euer in thine eyes.
The praise of that I yeld for sacrifice.

Meditations of a Penitent Sinner, Anne Locke