English poem
GRACE. From the same
by John Wesley (1703–1791)
My Stock lies dead, and no Increase Does thy Past Gifts improve: O let thy Graces without cease Drop gently from above.
If still the Sun should hide his Face, Earth would a Dungeon prove, Thy Works Night's Captives: O let Grace Drop gently from above.
The Dew unsought each Morning falls, Less bounteous is thy Dove? The Dew for which my Spirit calls, Drop gently from above.
Death is still digging like a Mole My Grave, where'er I move; Let Grace work too, and on my Soul Drop gently from above.
Sin is still spreading o'er my Heart A Hardness void of Love; Let suppling Grace, to cross her Art, Drop gently from above.
O come; for Thou dost know the Way! Or if Thou wilt not move, Translate me, where I need not say Drop gently from above.