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 murmuring word

Against thy chastening hand.

Yet I may plead with humble cries,

Remove thy sharp rebukes;

My strength consumes, my spirit dies

Thro' thy repeated strokes.

Crush'd 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 numerous race

Are vanity and smoke.]

I'm but a sojourner below,

As all my fathers were,

May I be well prepar'd to go

When I the summons hear.

But if my life be spar'd awhile,

Before my last remove,

Thy praise shall be my business still,

And I'll declare thy love.