Shall Your Work Decay?

You have made me, and shall your work decay?

Repair me now, for now my end does 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 do cast

Such terror, and my feebled flesh does waste

By sin in it, which it towards hell does weigh.

Only you are above, and when I gaze

By your leave toward your throne, I rise again;

But our old subtle foe so tests my days

That not one hour I can myself I can sustain;

Your grace may wing me to prevent his art,

And thou like Adamant draw my iron heart. 

— Holy Sonnet XIII, by John Donne (1572–1631)