When We Are Raised from Deep Distress

When we are raised from deep dis­tress

Our God de­serves a song;

We take the pat­tern of our praise

From He­ze­ki­ah’s tongue.

The gates of the de­vour­ing grave

Are op­ened wide in vain

If He that holds the keys of death

Commands them fast again.

Pains of the flesh are wont t’ab­use

Our minds with slav­ish fears:

Our days are past

and we shall lose

The rem­nant of our years.

We chat­ter with a swal­low’s voice

Or like a dove we mourn

With bit­ter­ness in­stead of joys

Afflicted and for­lorn.

Jehovah speaks the heal­ing word

And no dis­ease with­stands;

See fev­ers

plagues ob­ey the Lord

And fly at His com­mands.

If half the strings of life should break

He can our frame re­store;

He casts our sins be­hind His back

And they are found no more.