Meditation

What tho’ my Sins are of a crimson stain?

My Saviour’s Blood can wash me white again.

Tho’ numerous as the Twinkling stars they be,

Or sands along the margin of the Sea,

Or as smooth pebbles on some Beachy shore,

The mercies of th’ almighty still are more.

He looks upon my Soul with Pitying Eyes,

Sees all my fears, and listens to my cries,

And for the sake of his dear dying Son

Will Pardon all the Ills that I have done.

Text: Steele Collection, 10/1,Angus Library, Regent's Park College, Oxford; see also Whelan, Nonconformist Women Writers, vol. 4, p. 116.