English poem
July 28. The 7th day
by Philip Pain
Our dayes, our time, appointed are by God, And beyond that we may not have abode Here on this sinfull earth the day draws nigh, When every one shall have a time to dye. Lord, as the time does from me pass away, Grant me thy grace whilst in the world I stay.
Frail Mortals poste with speed after those things, Which at the last nought else but sorrow brings: Most think not of a great Eternity That's drawing on apace. Lord, grant that I May whilst I'me here pursue with might and main, Those things that will bring everlasting gain.
All Creatures in their kinde sound forth the praise Of their blest Maker; yea, the glorious Rayes Of his great Majesty appeareth on The least of all the Works of Creation. But Lord, Man by his sin dishonours thee, Who art the God of Immortalitie.
Whilst we are here below, we act and move, And this, and that we seek for to improve: The time will come when that our places shall Not know us; we shall be no more at all. Lord, grant that I may those great things improve, That are brought down to earth from heaven above.
Give me an interest in thy Son, and then Though I dye ne're so much I'le live agen.