A Thought in Sickness

How weak, how languid is th' immortal mind!
Prison'd in clay! ah, how unlike her birth!
These noble powers for active life design'd,
Depress'd with pain and grief, sink down to earth.

Unworthy dwelling of a heaven-born guest!
Ah, no! — for sin, the cause of grief and pain,
Taints her first purity, forbids her rest;
And justly is she doom'd to wear the chain.

To wear the chain — how long? till grace divine
By griefs and pains shall wean from earthly toys;
Till grace convince, invigorate, refine,
And thus prepare the mind for heavenly joys.

Then, O my God, let this reviving thought
To all thy dispensations reconcile;
Be present pains with future blessings fraught,
And let my cheerful hope look up and smile.

Look up and smile, to hail the glorious day,
(Jesus, to thee this blissful hope I owe,)
When I shall leave this tenement of clay,
With all its frailties, all its pains below.

Jesus, in thee, in thee I trust, to raise
Renew'd, refin'd, and fair, this frail abode;
Then my whole frame shall speak thy wond'rous
Forever consecrated to my God.