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 this day Thy victorie;
   For, if I imp my wing on Thine,
 Affliction shall advance the flight in me.