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Poem	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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