Unclean, Unclean: My Lord, Undone, all vile
Yea all Defild: What shall thy Servant doe?
Unfit for thee: not fit for holy Soile,
Nor for Communion of Saints below.
A bag of botches, Lump of Loathsomeness:
Defild by Touch, by Issue: Leproust flesh.

Thou wilt have all that enter do thy fold
Pure, Cleane, and bright, Whiter than whitest Snow
Better refin'd than most refined Gold:
I am not so: but fowle: What shall I doe?
Shall thy Church Doors be shut, and shut out mee?
Shall not Church fellowship my portion bee?

How can it be? Thy Churches do require
Pure Holiness: I am all filth, alas!
Shall I defile them, tumbled thus in mire?
Or they mee cleanse before I current pass?
If thus they do, Where is the Niter bright
And Sope they offer mee to wash me White?

The Brisk Red heifer's Ashes, when calcin'd,
Mixt all in running Water, is too Weake
To wash away my Filth: The Dooves assign'd
Burnt, and Sin Offerings neer do the feate
But as they Emblemize the Fountain Spring
Thy Blood, my Lord, set ope to wash off Sin.