Miles Coverdale [1488-1568], Goostly psalmes and spiritual songes drawen out of the holy Scripture, for the comforte and consolacyon of soch as love to rejoyse in God and his worde (Southwark, Johan Gough, 1535. [STC2 5892]
O lorde god
have thou mercy on me
after thy marvelous great pite
as thou art ful of mercy
do awaye my iniquite.
*And washe me from all fylthynesse
of my great synnes and wantonesse
for they are many within me
and ever I fele them hevye
my synne is alwaye before myne eye.
I
have alone offended the
before the have I lyved synfully
in thy worde stondest thou stedfastly
thought thou be judged wrongfully.
¶Se how I am conceaved in synne
My mother hath brought me forth therin
*A chylde of wrathe by nature borne
And without the lorde am forlorne
To the treuth thou hast a pleasure alwaye
And helpest my blyndnesse every daye
To know thy wysedome gracyously
That thou hast hyd so secretly
With ysope fayre sprenkle thou me
Washe thou me clene so shall I be
Whyter then snowe mende thou me cheare
My weery bones to helpe from feare
Which thou thy selfe hast brused so neare.
¶ Loke not upon my wreched lyfe
Fve my synnes that are so ryfe
Lorde make in me a ryght pure harte
A good conscience let be my parte
A godly spirite renew in me
And cast me not away from the
Thy holy spirite let me have styll
To be my conforte in all evell
And let me have ever the gladnesse
Of thy health in all hevynresse
Thy myghtie spirite holde thou in me
I wyll helpe synner turne to the
Thy waye wyll I teache them hartely.
¶ God rydde me from bloudgyltynesse
Thou god of all my healthfulnesse
So shall my tonge geve prayse to the
Thy rhghtuousnesse to honoure in me
Lorde open thou these lippes of myne
That my mouthe maye to they prayse inclyne
Thou hast no pleasure in offrynge
For else I thought them the to brynge
Burnt offrynges are not to thy paye
THey please not the though they be gaye
They are nothynge worth in thy syght
Gods offrynge is of moche more myght
A spirite all troubled is his ryght.
¶ A contrite harte that is brought
lowe
Shalt thou Lorde God, awaye not throwe:
That dost thou alwaye so regarde,
That it shall ever of the be harde.
To Sion, Lorde, be gracyous,
After thy kyndnesse plenteous;
That the walles of Hierusalem
Maye be buylded and brought from shame.
Then shalt thou be pleased doutlesse
With the offrynge of ryghtuousnesse,
With the brent offrynges of thy wyll:
That shall good men theyr calves kyll,
Therwith thyne alter to fulfyll.