When sick­ness shakes the lang­uid frame,
Each dazz­ling plea­sure flies;
Phantoms of bliss no more ob­scure
Our long de­lud­ed eyes.

Then the tre­men­dous arm of death
Its hat­ed scep­ter shows;
And na­ture faints be­neath the weight
Of com­pli­cat­ed woes.

The tot­ter­ing 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 fixed
On his all gra­cious God,
In ev­ery frown may com­fort find,
And kiss the chast­en­ing 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.