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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 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  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.