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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.
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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