Grace

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 Night's captives; O let grace
Drop from above!
The dew doth ev'ry morning fall;
And shall the dew outstrip 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.