MY stock lies dead, and no increase Doth my dull husbandrie improve: O let thy graces without cease Drop from above! If still the sunne should hide his face, Thy house would but a dungeon prove, Thy works nights captives: O let grace Drop from above! The dew doth evry morning fall; And shall the dew out-strip thy Dove? The dew, for which grasse 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. Sinne is still hammering my heart Unto a hardnesse, void of love: Let suppling grace, to crosse 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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