Lord! should the sunne, the clowds, the winde,
The ayre and seasons be
To vs so froward unkind,
As we are false to thee,
All fruites would quite away be burn'd,
Or lye in water drown'd,
Or blasted be, or ouerturn'd,
Or chilled on the ground.
But from our duty though we swarue,
Thou still dost mercy shew,
And daign thy creatures to preserue,
That men might thankfull grow;
Yet though from day to day we sinne,
And thy displeasure gaine,
No sooner we to cry beginne,
But pitty we obtaine.
The weather now thou changed hast
That put vs late to feare,
And when our hopes were almost past,
Then comfort did appeare;
The heauen the earth's complaints hath heard,
They reconciled be,
And thou such weather hast prepar'd
As we desired of thee.
For which, with lifted hands and eyes,
To thee we doe repay
The due and willing sacrifice
Of giving thanks to-day;
Because such offrings we should not
To render thee be slowe,
Nor let thy mercie be forgot,
Which thou art pleased to showe.