From That High Mount Of

And The More I See Pleasures About Me, So Much More I Feel Torment Within Me.

Apostate, Still Thou Err'st, Nor End Wilt Find Offering, From The Paths Of Truth Remote.

Believe And Be Confirmed.

Hear All Ye Angels, Progeny Of Light, Thrones, Dominations, Princedoms, Virtues, Powers.

O Loss Of Sight, Of Thee I Most Complain! Blind Among Enemies, O Worse Than Chains, Dungeon Or Beggary, Or Decrepit Age! Light, The Prime Work Of God, To Me Is Extinct, And All Her Various Objects Of Delight Annulled, Which Might In Part My Grief Have Eased. Inferior To The Vilest Now Become Of Man Or Worm; The Vilest Here Excel Me, They Creep, Yet See; I, Dark In Light, Exposed To Daily Fraud, Contempt, Abuse And Wrong, Within Doors, Or Without, Still As A Fool, In Power Of Others, Never In My Own; Scarce Half I Seem To Live, Dead More Than Half.