Afflictions do not come alone,
A voice at­tends the rod;
By both He to His saints is known,
A Fa­ther and a God!

Let not My child­ren slight the stroke
I for chas­tise­ment send;
Nor faint be­neath My kind re­buke,
For still I am their friend.

The wick­ed I per­haps may leave
Awhile, and not re­prove;
But all the child­ren I receive
I scourge, be­cause I love.

If there­fore you were left with­out
This need­ful dis­ci­pline;
You might, with cause, ad­mit a doubt,
If you, in­deed, were Mine.

Shall earth­ly par­ents then ex­pect
Their child­ren to submit?
And wilt not you, when I cor­rect,
Be hum­bled at My feet?

To please them­selves they oft chas­tise,
And put their sons to pain;
But you are pre­cious in My eyes,
And shall not smart in vain.

I see your hearts, at pre­sent, filled
With grief, and deep dis­tress;
But soon these bit­ter seeds shall yield
The fruits of right­eous­ness.

Break through the clouds, dear Lord, and shine!
Let us per­ceive Thee nigh!
And to each mourn­ing child of Thine
These gra­cious words ap­ply.