Who knoweth what is good for man

Who knoweth what is good for man
In this vain life below?
Who for himself dare plot and plan,
And measure out life's little span
With certainty, as if he can
Tell what will come or go?

The very things we most desire,
Most importunely crave,
Granted — might only feed the fire
Of Passion's lust, and raise it higher,
Until both life and joy expire
In an untimely grave.

Or we may live to feel 'twas best
That God denied our prayer;
And tried and proved, 'till we confest
That waves and storms which broke our rest,
And toss'd us to our Saviour's breast,
Our truest blessings were.

Alas! to-morrow — how it seems
To cheat us of to-day!
The fond enthusiast idly deems
Those projects, passions, plans, and schemes,
Which people Life's uneasy dreams,
Will for his coming stay.

But let another evening set,
Another morning rise;
To-morrow will its pledge forget,
When it becomes to-day, — nor let
Its dupe know aught but vain regret,
And so he lives and dies.

Lord, let me cast all thought of care
For worldly things on Thee;
Thankful that Thou such weight wilt bear
For one, who has small time to spare
For aught, but holy strife and prayer
Thine evermore to be.