1 When heaven does grant at certain times,
Amidst a pow'rful gale,
Sweet liberty to moan my crimes,
And wand'rings to bewail--

2 Then do I dream my sinful brood
Is drown'd in the wide main
Of crystal tears and crimson blood,
And ne'er will live again.

3 I get my foes beneath my feet,
I bruise the serpent's head;
I hope the vict'ry is complete,
And all my lusts are dead.

4 But ah, alas! th'ensuing hour
My passions rise and swell;
They rage and reinforce their pow'r
With new recruits from hell.