Grace
George Herbert
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 its face,
Thy house would still a dungeon prove,
The works night’s captives: O let grace
Drop from above!
The dew doth ev’ry morning fall;
And shall the dew out-strip 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.