O God, why has thou thus
    Repulst, and scattred us?
Shall now thy wrath no lymmitts hold?
    But ever smoke and burne?
    Till it to Asshes turne
The chosen folk of the deare fold?

    Ah! Think with milder thought
    On them whom thou hast brought,
And purchased from endlesse daies:
    Thinck of thy birthright lott,
    Of Sion, on whose plot,
Thy sacred house supported staies.

    Come, Lord, O come with speed
    This sacrilegious seed
Roote quickly out, and hedlong cast:
    All that thy holy place
    Did late adorne and grace,
Their hatefull hands have quite defast.

    Their beastly trumpets rore,
    Where heav’nly notes before
In praises of the might did flow:
    Within thy temples they
    Their ensigns eft display
The ensigns, which their conquest show.

    As men with axe on arme
    To some thick forrest swarme,
To lopp the trees which stately stand:
    They to thy temple flock,
    And spoiling, cutt and knock
The curious workes of carving hand.

    Thy most, most holy seate
    The greedy flames do eate,
And have such ruthless ruyns wrought,
    That all thy house is raste,
    So raste, and so defast,
That of that all remayneth nought.