16. April 2006 · Comments Off · Categories: imported, Poetry

by George Herbert

Lord, Who createdst man in wealth and store,

        Though foolishly he lost the same,

              Decaying more and more,

                      Till he became

                        Most poore:



                        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 beginne;

  And still with sicknesses and shame

        Thou didst so punish sinne,

                  That I became

                   Most thinne.



                    With Thee

                Let me combine,

      And feel this day Thy victorie;

    For, if I imp my wing on Thine,

Affliction shall advance the flight in me.


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