Classic Poem

Pray give me patience, Oh! my God,
Most quietly to bear
All the Trouble and the Pain
Thou layest on me here.

Yea, to Correct, or to Instruct
Thou dealest thus with me;
Oh! give me then to see the cause,
That I improv'd may be.

I know that if I had not fin'd,
I should not suffer here;
But I'm too ready to complain,
My God and Saviour dear.

But what is all the Pain I feel,
To what my Saviour bore,
When that his Hands and Feet were nail'd,
And stain'd with purple Gore.

What Desolation Sin has made,
Which cramps all earthly Joys
It's like a Worm that bites the Root,
And all the Plant destroys.

Thus do we suffer Sickness, Grief,
All Horor and all Pain;
True Happiness we never know.
Except we're born again.

Created thus in Christ anew,
They're blest who does believe;
Christ gives to such of Joys divine,
Which none but his receive.