Thou hast made me, and shall thy work decay?
Repair me now, for now mine end doth haste
I run to death, and death meets me as fast
And all my pleasures are like yesterday;
I dare not move my dim eyes any way
Despair behind, and death before doth cast
Such terror, and my feebled flesh doth waste
By sin in it, which it towards hell doth weigh
Only thou art above, and when towards thee
By thy leave I can look, I rise again;
But our old subtle foe so tempteth me
That not onе hour I can myself sustain;
Thy grace may wing me to prеvent his art
And thou like adamant draw mine iron heart