Poetry Archives

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.