Let my hand smite my breast, 

as the fountain and root from which all my iniquities do spring. 

Let my tongue confess them, 

my eye mourn for them, 

my face, blush for them, 

and my heart bleed for them. 

Then shall I unfeigningly say and acknowledge, 

My ruin is from my self, but in you is my help, O Lord!


A prayer by William Spurstowe