Classic Poem

O Father of the Rain , Look down
 Upon us from on high;
If thy Land be not Rain'd upon,
 What Lives on it will Dy .

Lord of the Clouds; In thee we hope;
 Thine all the Bottels are;
Except Thou open them, a Drop
 won't fall upon us here.

If thou make Heav'n as Brass , and burn
 From thence the groaning Field,
Thy Earth will soon to Iron turn,
 And no Production yield.

O Let thy Seasonable Rain
 Drop Fatness on our Soyl;
And grant to most unworthy Man
 The Harvest of his Toil.

But, O my SAVIOUR, in a Showre
 Of Righteousness descend:
Gifts on me, with they SPIRIT poure;
 And Life that cannot End.

Yea, come upon a World forlorn,
 And with a Quickening Dew ,
Make thou Mankind, of Water born,
 Tho' Dead , their Life Renew.

In the mean time, thy Ministers ,
As Clouds , how Fat and Bright !
May they upon Salvations Heirs
 Distil Things Good and Right.