278      Easter wings

Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store,
Though foolishly he lost the same,
Decaying more and more,
Till he become,
Most poore;
With there
O let me rise
As larks, harmoniously,
And sing this day thy victores;
Then shall the fall further the flight in me.

My tender age in sorrow did beginne;
And still with sicknesses and shame
Thon didst so punish sinne,
That I become
Most thinne,
With thee
Let me combine,
And feel this day thy victorie;
For if I imp my wing on thine,
Afftiction shall advance the flight in me.