George Herbert Poem 'Grace'

My stock lies dead, and no increase
Doth my dull husbandry improve:
O let they graces without cease
                           Drop from above!

If still the sun should hide his face,
Thy house would but a dungeon prove,
Thy works nights captives: O let grace
                           Drop from above!


The dew doth every morning fall;
And shall the dew outstrip they 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.