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 thy
victory:
For, if I imp my wing on thine,
Affliction shall advance the flight in me.
