Classic Poem

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 sickness and shame
Thou did'st 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.