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.'