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My stock lies dead, and no increase
Doth my dull husbandry improve :
O let thy graces, without cease,
Drop from above!

If still the sun should hide his face,
Thy house would but a dungeon prove,
Thy works night's captives: O let grace
Drop from above!

The dew doth every morning fall;

And shall the dew outstrip thy Dove?
The dew, for which grass cannot call,
Drops from above.

Death is still working like a mole,
And digs my grave at each remove :


grace work too, and on my soul
Drop from above.

Sin is still hammering my heart,

Unto a hardness, void of love : Let suppl'ing grace, to cross his art, Drop from above.

O come, for thou dost know the way; Or, if to me thou wilt not move, Remove me where I need not say,— Drop from above.

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Then let wrath remove;

Love will do the deed:

For with love

Stony hearts will bleed.

Love is swift of foot:

Love's a man of war,

And can shoot,

And can hit from far.

Who can 'scape his bow ?

That which wrought on Thee,

Brought Thee low,

Needs must work on me :

Throw away Thy rod;

Though man frailties hath;

Thou art God:

Throw away Thy wrath.


TEACH me, my God and King,

In all things thee to see, And what I do in anything, To do it as for thee:

Not rudely, as a beast,
To run into an action;
But still to make thee prepossest
And give it his perfection.

A man that looks on glass,
On it may stay his eye;
Or if he pleaseth, through it pass,
And then the heaven spy.

All may of thee partake:

Nothing can be so mean,

Which with his tincture For thy sake'

Will not grow bright and clean.

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