An After-Thought

I cannot call affliction sweet,
And yet 'twas good to bear:
Affliction brought me to Thy feet,
And I found comfort there.

My weanèd soul was all-resign'd
To Thy most gracious will;
Oh! had I kept that better mind,
Or been afflicted still!

Where are the vows which then I vow'd,
The joys which then I knew?
Those vanish'd, like the morning cloud,
These like the early dew.

Lord, grant me grace for every day,
Whate'er my state may be,
Through life, in death, with truth to say,
"My God is all to me!"