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The Church.
Thou shutt'st the doore, and keep'st within; Scarce a good joy creeps through the chink: And if the braves of conqu'ring sinneDid not excite thee, we should wholly sink.
Lord, though we change, thou art the same; The same sweet God of love and light: Restore this day, for thy great Name,Unto his ancient and miraculous right.
¶ Grace.
MY stock lies dead, and no increaseDoth my dull husbandrie improve:O let thy graces without ceaseDrop from above!
If still the sunne should hide his face,Thy house would but a dungeon prove,Thy works nights captives: O let graceDrop from above!
The dew doth ev'ry morning fall;And shall the dew out-strip thy dove?The dew, for which grasse 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 soulDrop from above.
Sinne is still hammering my heartUnto a hardnesse, void of love:Let suppling grace, to crosse his art,Drop from above.
O
