GRACE
My stock lies dead, and no increase
Does my dull husbandry improve:
O let Your graces without cease
Drop from above!
If still the sun should hide his face,
Your house would but a dungeon prove,
Your works night's captives: O let grace
Drop from above!
The dew doth ev'ry morning fall;
And shall the dew out-strip Your Dove?
The dew, for which grass cannot call,
Drop from above.
Death is still working like a mole,
And digs my grave at each remove:
Let grace work too, and on my soul
Drop from above.
Sin is still hammering my heart
Unto a hardnesse, void of love:
Let suppling grace, to crosse his art,
Drop from above.
O come! for You do know the way:
Or if to me You wilt not move,
Remove me, where I need not say,
Drop from above.
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