John & Charles Wesley · 34 of 258

Grace

From the same.

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.