To what becomes me not to see;
That deafness might possess mine ear,
To what concerns me not to hear;
That Truth my tongue might always tie,
From ever speaking foolishly;
That no vain thought might ever rest,
Or be conveived in my breast;
That by each word, each deed, each thought,
Glory may to my God be brought.
But what are wishes! Lord, mine eye
On thee is fix'd, to thee I cry;
Oh purge out all my dross, my tin,
Make me more white than snow within;
Wash Lord, and purify my heart,
And make it clean in every part;
And when 'tis clean, Lord keep it too,
For that is more than I can do.
...a prayer of Thomas Ellwood, 1639–1713
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