When Sickness Shakes The Languid Frame
When sickness shakes the languid frame,
Each dazzling pleasure flies;
Phantoms of bliss no more obscure
Our long deluded eyes.
The the tremendous arm of death
Its fatal sceptre shews;
And nature faints beneath the weight
Of complicated woes.
The tott’ring frame of mortal life
Shall crumble into dust;
Nature shall faint-but learn, my soul,
On nature’s God to trust.
The man, whose pious heart is fix’d
On his all-gracious God,
From ev’ry frown may draw a joy,
And kiss the chast’ning rod.
Nor him shall death itself alarm;
On heav’n his soul relies;
With joy he views his Maker’s love,
And with composure dies.