C. M.
Afflictions and death under Providence.
Not from the dust affliction grows,
Nor troubles rise by chance;
Yet we are born to cares and woes;
A sad inheritance!
As sparks break out from burning coals,
And still are upwards borne
So grief is rooted in our souls,
And man grows lip to mourn.
Yet with my God I leave my cause,
And trust his promised grace;
He rules me by his well-known laws
Of love and righteousness.
Not all the pains that e'er I bore
Shall spoil my future peace,
For death and hell can do no more
Than what my Father please.