A Complaint on the Miseries of Life

I loathe, O Lord, this life below,
And all its fading fleeting joys ;
'Tis a short space that's filled with woe,
Which all our bliss by far outweighs.
When will the everlasting morn
With dawning light the skies adorn ?

Fitly this life's compared to night,
When gloomy darkness shades the sky ;
Just like the morn's our glimmering light
Reflected from the Deity.
When will celestial morn dispel
These dark surrounding shades of hell ?

I'm sick of this vexatious state,
Where cares invade my peaceful hours ;
Strike the last blow, O courteous fate,
I'll smiling fall like mowed flowers ;
I'll gladly spurn this clogging clay,
And, sweetly singing, soar away.

What 's money but refined dust ?
What's honour but an empty name ?
And what is soft enticing lust
But a consuming idle flame ?
Yea, what is all beneath the sky
But emptiness and vanity ?

With thousand ills our life 's oppressed ;
There's nothing here worth living for!
In the lone grave I long to rest,
And be harassed here no more :
Where joy 's fantastic, grief 's sincere,
And where there 's nought for which I care.

Thy word, O Lord, shall be my guide;
Heaven, where thou dwellest is my goal ;
Through corrupt life grant I may glide
With an untainted upward soul.
Then may this life, this dreary night
Dispelled be by morning light.