Classic Poem

Cease , my complaining spirit, cease;
Know 't is a Father's hand you feel;
It leads you to the realms of peace;
It kindly only wounds to heal.

My Father, what a holy joy
Bursts on the sad, desponding mind,
To say when fiercest ills annoy,
I know my Father still is kind.

This bids each trembling fear be still,
Checks every murmur, every sigh:
Patience then waits his sovereign will,
Rejoiced to live — resigned to die.

O blessed ministry of pain,
To teach the soul its real worth;
To lead it to that source again,
From whence it first derived its birth.