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Man. Unhappy man  that I am, who  shall  deliver  me from  the  body  of  this  death? Why do  I still  live,  or  why do I cumber  the  ground? I who am  a dry  and  unfruitful tree; I, who  am  ever  thankless and  hurtful  to  my  God, while I do  nought  but  heap sin upon  sin,  and  so  treasure up to  myself  wrath  against the day  of  wrath,  and  the  just judgment of  God? Too well I know by  experience,  alas, that there  dwells  not  in  me that  which  is  good,  and  that the corruptible  body  is  a load upon the  soul. Therefore it is  that  I do  evil,  and  sin  daily; and what,  is  worse,  I seldom or never  reflect,  how  dreadful a thing  it  is,  that  I commit sin,  and  yet  endeavour not with  adequate  tears  and groans to  propitiate  God  my Creator,  whom  I so  often provoke to  anger.

How much  cause,  alas,  I have  to  weep,  while  I have no just  cause  to  laugh! With a darkened heart,  and  a treacherous  conscience; with relapses into  sin  and  rejection of  grace; with  so  many entanglements and  occasions of sinning,  what  can  I do  but weep and  groan  because  of them? Who will  give  water to my  head,  and  a fountain  of tears  to  my  eyes,  and  I will weep day  and  night  for  the losses of  the  time  past,  the dangers of  that  to  come, and the  miseries  of  my  soul, which are  multiplied  without number. Ah, my  Lord  God! what will  ever  become  of  me, when I fail  daily,  and  cease not to  offend  thee? When shall I be  cured  of  my  infirm-