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 begin:
   And still with sicknesses and shame
       Thou didst so punish sin,
              That I became
                Most thin,
                 With thee
             Let me combine,
      And feel this day thy victory:
     For, if I imp my wing on thine,
 Affliction shall advance the flight in me.
George Herbert | Classic Poems

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