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v.9-13
C. M.
Sick-bed devotion.

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.

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