God of my life, look gent­ly down,
Behold the pains I feel;
But I am dumb be­fore Thy throne,
Nor dare dis­pute Thy will.

Diseases are Thy ser­vants, Lord,
They come at Thy com­mand;
I’ll not at­tempt a mur­mur­ing word
Against Thy chast­en­ing hand.

Yet I may plead with hum­ble cries,
Remove Thy sharp re­bukes;
My strength con­sumes, my spir­it dies,
Through Thy re­peat­ed strokes.

Crushed as a moth be­neath Thy hand,
We mol­der to the dust;
Our fee­ble pow­ers can ne’er with­stand,
And all our beau­ty’s lost.

This mor­tal life de­cays apace,
How soon the bub­ble’s broke!
Adam and all his nu­mer­ous race
Are va­ni­ty and smoke.

I’m but a so­journ­er be­low,
As all my fa­thers were;
May I be well pre­pared to go,
When I the sum­mons hear!

But if my life be spared a while,
Before my last re­move,
Thy praise shall be my bu­si­ness still,
And I’ll de­clare Thy love.