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Easter Wings Print E-mail
By George Herbert   
Monday, 21 April 2014

Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store,
     Though foolishly he lost the same,
           Decaying more and more,
                 Till he became
                       Most poore:
                       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 beginne
     And still with sicknesses and shame.
           Thou didst so punish sinne,
                 That I became
                       Most thinne.
                       With thee
                 Let me combine,
           And feel thy victorie:
        For, if I imp my wing on thine,
Affliction shall advance the flight in me.


 
 

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