RD ! what a busy, restless thing Hast Thou made man ! Each day and hour he is on wing, Rests not a span ; Then having lost the sun and light, By clouds surpris'd, He keeps a commerce in the night With air disguis'd. Hadst Thou given to this active dust A state untir'd, The lost son had not left the husk, Nor home desir'd. That was Thy secret, and it is Thy mercy too ; For when all fails to bring to bliss, Then this must do.
Ah,
Lord ! and what a purchase will that be,
To take us sick, that sound would not take Thee !
