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George Herbert - Grace
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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.
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