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Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store,
	 Though foolishly he lost the same,
			Decaying more and more,
					Till he became
					  Most poor:
					  With thee
					O let me rise
			  As larks, harmoniously, 
		And sing this day thy victories:
  Then shall the fall further the flight in me.

	  My tender age in sorrow did begin:
	 And still with sicknesses and shame
			Thou didst so punish sin,
				   That I became
					  Most thin.
					  With thee
				   Let me combine
		 And feel this day thy victory:
		 For, if I imp my wing on thine,
   Affliction shall advance the flight in me.


Anonymous submission.

Added: 5 May 2003 | Last Read: 16 Dec 2018 1:09 PM | Viewed: 16769 times

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