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.

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.”