Easter-wings

Lord, who created man in wealth and store,

  Though foolishly he lost the same,

    Decaying more and more,

      Till he became

        Most poor:

        With thee

      Oh let me rise

    As larks, harmoniously,

  And sing this day your victories:

Then shall the fall further the flight in me.

My  tender  age  in  sorrow  did   begin:

  And still with sicknesses and shame

    You did so punish sin,

      That I became

        Most thin.

        With thee

      Let me combine

    And feel this day your victory:

  For,  if  I  imp  my  wing  on  thine

Affliction shall advance the flight in me.