Since in a land not barren still
(Because Thou dost Thy grace distill)
My lot is fallen, blest be Thy will!
And since these biting frosts but kill
Some tares in me which choke or spill
That seed Thou sow’st, blest be Thy skill!
Blest be Thy dew, and blest Thy frost,
And happy I to be so crossed,
And cured by crosses at Thy cost.
The dew doth cheer what is distressed,
The frosts ill weeds nip and molest;
In both Thou work’st unto the best.
Thus while Thy several mercies plot,
And work on me now cold, now hot,
The work goes on and slacketh not;
For as Thy hand the weather steers,
So thrive I best, 'twixt joys and tears,
And all the year have some green ears.