GRACE.
From the same.
My stock lies dead, and no increase
Does Thy past gifts improve:
O, let Thy graces without cease
Drop gently from above.
If still the sun should hide his face,
Earth would a dungeon prove,
Thy works night's captives: O, let grace
Drop gently from above.
The dew unsought each morning falls:
Less bounteous is Thy dove?
The dew for which my spirit calls
Drop gently from above.
Death is still digging like a mole
My grave, where'er I move;
Let grace work too, and on my soul
Drop gently from above.
Sin is still spreading o'er my heart
A hardness void of love;
Let suppling grace, to cross her art,
Drop gently from above.
O, come; for Thou dost know the way!
Or, if Thou wilt not move,
Translate me, where I need not say
Drop gently from above.
