Lord God! this was a stone,
As hard as any one
Thy laws in Nature framed:
'Tis now a springing well,
And many drops can tell,
Since it by Art was tamed.

My God! my heart is so,
'Tis all of flint, and no
Extract of tears will yield:
Dissolve it with thy fire,
That something may aspire,
And grow up in my field.

Bare tears I'll not entreat,
But let thy Spirit's seat
Upon those waters be:
Then I, new formed with light,
Shall move without all night
Of eccentricity.