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.