God of my life, look gently down,
Behold the pains I feel;
But I am dumb before thy throne,
Nor dare dispute thy will.
Diseases are thy servants, Lord,
They come at thy command;
I’ll not attempt a murm’ring word
Against thy chast’ning hand.
Yet I may plead with humble cries,
Remove thy sharp rebukes;
My strength consumes, my spirit dies,
Through thy repeated strokes.
Crushed as a moth beneath thy hand,
We moulder to the dust;
Our feeble powers can ne’er withstand,
And all our beauty’s lost.
[This mortal life decays apace,
How soon the bubble’s broke!
Adam and all his num’rous race
Are vanity and smoke.]
I’m but a sojourner below,
As all my fathers were;
May I be well prepared to go,
When I the summons hear.
But if my life be spared awhile,
Before my last remove,
Thy praise shall be my business still,
And I’ll declare thy love.