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.

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.