Verse 1
Why should a sinful man complain,
When mildly chasten’d for his good?
Start from the salutary pain,
And tremble at a Father’s rod?
Why should I grieve his hand t’ endure,
Or murmur to accept my cure?
Verse 2
Beneath th’ afflictive stroke I fall,
And struggle to give up my will;
Weeping I own ’tis mercy all;
Mercy pursues and holds me still,
Kindly refuses to depart,
And strongly vindicates my heart.
Verse 3
Humbly I now the rod revere,
And mercy in the judgment find;
’Tis God afflicts; I own him near;
’Tis he, ’tis he severely kind,
Watches my soul with jealous care,
Disdainful of a rival there.
Verse 4
’Tis hence my ravish’d friends I mourn,
And grief weighs down my weary head,
Far from my bleeding bosom torn,
The dear, lov’d, dangerous joys are fled,
Hence my complaining never ends,—
Oh! I have lost my friends, my friends!
Verse 5
Long my reluctant folly held,
Nor gave them to my God’s command;
Hardly at length constrain’d to yield;
For Oh! The angel seiz’d my hand,
Broke off my grasp, forbad my stay,
And forc’d my ling’ring soul away.
Verse 6
Yes; the divorce at last is made,
My soul is crush’d beneath the blow;
The judgment falls, so long delay’d,
And lays my stubborn spirit low,
My hope expires, my comfort ends,
Oh! I have lost my friends, my friends!