On' the Death of Mrs. Anne Wigginton, April 24, 1757

What shall we say? it is the Lord!
His name be praised, His will be done'
Bereaved by His revoking word,
We meekly render Him His own,
And faultless mourn our partner fled,
Our friend removed, our Dorcas dead.

A Christian good, without pretence,
A widow by her works approved,
A saint indeed is summon'd hence.
To triumph with her Best-beloved,
In whom she found acceptance here,
And show'd her faith by humble fear.

By works of righteousness she show'd
The gracious principle within.
By reverence for the things of God,
By deadness to the world and sin,
By laying up her wealth above.
By all the toils of patient love.

Memorial of her faith unfeign'd,
As incense sweet, before the throne,
Did not her prayers and alms ascend.
And bring the heavenly herald down?
Did she not for the preacher call.
With news of pardoning grace for all?

What though she in the desert pined,
And languish'd for the Hght in vain,
Her soul obedient, and resign'd.
Did darkly safe with God remain,
Who led His trembling servant on,
And bless'd her in a path unknown.

Unconscious of the grace received,
She mourn'd, as destitute of grace,
A pattern to believers lived.
And labour'd on with even pace,
Possess'd of Mary's better part.
And Martha's hands, and Lydia's heart.

No noisy self-deceiver she.
No boaster vain of faith untried:
Her own good deeds she could not see.
But wrought, and cast them all aside
And when her glorious race was run,
Complain'd, " She never yet begun."