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 t'wards 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 one hour I can myself sustain;
Thy grace may wing me to prevent his art,
And thou like adamant draw mine
iron heart.
- John Donne