Upon the Berth of my Sonn Henry the 13th of August at 11 a clock at night — 1646

When I (O Lord) Thy mercies skan
Stooping unto the Publican
Standing afarr ofe, and didst dain
To guive, that he might aske again:
(For not the owtward-beaten-brest
Nor down-cast-look could make him blest
But 'twas Thine owne Power did controwle
His former vice, stampt new His sowle)
Me thinkes I am soe far set free
From all sinns bonds and Tyranny
As that raisd up in hopes, noe more
I need Zaccheus Sycamore
But though a Dwarf in grace conclude
I see Christ 'bove the Multetude
Calling me down as if to say
He meant to be my Guest to day
And (though a Sinner) crowne my wish
Bringing an Olive branch for's Dish.