Grace
Автор книги George Herbert
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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 ev'ry morning fall;
And shall the dew outstrip thy 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 hardness, void of love:
Let suppling grace, to cross his art,
Drop from above.
