Categories
Poetry

Sunday Sonnet

It is late Sunday Evening. We have had a series of storms over the weekend, and other things to do. There has been a loss of status for our rugby team, and NZ is in mourning. But we don’t consider as much as we ought our situation before God. Locke corrects us. The text Locke used was Lord, open thou my lippes, and my mouth shal shewe thy praise, and I don’t think we need a modern translation.

Lo straining crampe of colde despeir againe
In feble brest doth pinche my pinyng hart,
So as in greatest nede to cry and plaine
My speache doth faile to vtter thee my smart.
Refreshe my yeldyng hert, with warming grace,
And loose my speche, and make me call to thee.
Lord open thou my lippes to shewe my case,
My Lord, for mercy Loe to thee I flee.
I can not pray without thy mouyng ayde,
Ne can I ryse, ne can I stande alone.
Lord, make me pray, & grau[n]t whe[n] I haue praide,
Lord loose my lippes, I may expresse my mone,
And findyng grace with open mouth I may
Thy mercies praise, and holy name display.

Anne Locke