Where, Lord, shall I my refuge see?
On whom repose my hope by thee?
O purge my guilt, nor let my foe
Exulting mock my heighten’d woe.
Convinc’d that thy paternal hand
Inflicts but what my sins demand,
I speechless sat; nor plaintive word,
Nor murmur from my lips was heard.
But O, in thy appointed hour,
Withdraw thy rod; let nature’s pow’r,
While griefs on griefs my heart assail,
Unequal to the conflicts, fail.
O how thy chastisements impair
The human form, however fair!
How frail the strongest frame we see,
If thou the sinner’s fate decree!
As when the fretting moths consume
The labour of the curious loom,
The texture fails, the dyes decay,
And all its lustre fades away.
Such man, thy state! then humbled, own
That vanity and thou are one;
Thyself, when in the balance weigh’d,
A nothing, and thy life a shade.