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.