Cotton Mather (1663–1728)
O Father of the Rain, Look down
Upon us from on high;
If thy Land be not Rain’d upon,
What Lives on it will Dy.
Lord of the Clouds; In thee we hope;
Thine all the Bottels are;
Except Thou open them, a Drop
won’t fall upon us here.
If thou make Heav’n as Brass, and burn
From thence the groaning Field,
Thy Earth will soon to Iron turn,
And no Production yield.
O Let thy Seasonable Rain
Drop Fatness on our Soyl;
And grant to most unworthy Man
The Harvest of his Toil.
But, O my SAVIOUR, in a Showre
Of Righteousness descend:
Gifts on me, with they SPIRIT poure;
And Life that cannot End.
Yea, come upon a World forlorn,
And with a Quickening Dew,
Make thou Mankind, of Water born,
Tho’ Dead, their Life Renew.
In the mean time, thy Ministers,
As Clouds, how Fat and Bright!
May they upon Salvations Heirs
Distil Things Good and Right.
Ordained Servant Online, June–July 2018.