Thou hast made me, And shall thy worke decay?
Repaire me now, for now mine end doth haste,
I runne to death, and death meets me as fast,
And all my pleasures are like yesterday;
I dare not move my dimme eyes any way,
Despaire behind, and death before doth cast
Such terrour, and my feeble flesh doth waste
By sinne in it, which it t’wards hell doth weigh;
Onely thou art above, and when towards thee
By thy leave I can looke, I rise againe;
Bout our old subtle foe so tempteth me,
That not one houre my selfe I can sustain;
Thy Grace may wing me to prevent his art,
And thou like Adamant draw mine iron heart.
John Donne, Holy Sonnet I.