Let patience have her perfect work

Can man rejoice who lives in hourly fear?
Can man make haste who toils beneath a load?
Can man feel rest who has no fixed abode?
All he lays hold of, or can see or hear,
Is passing by, is prompt to disappear,
Is doomed, foredoomed, continueth in no stay:
This day he breathes in is his latter day,
This year of time is this world’s latter year.
Thus in himself is he most miserable:
Out of himself, Lord, lift him up to Thee,
Out of himself and all these worlds that flee;
Hold him in patience underneath the rod,
Anchor his hope beyond life’s ebb and swell,
Perfect his patience in the love of God.