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Poem	Submission to afflictive providences. Job 1:21. Naked as from the earth we came, And crept to life at first, We to the earth return again, And mingle with our dust. The dear delights we here enjoy, And fondly call our own, Are but short favors borrowed now, To be repaid anon. 'Tis God that lifts our comforts high, Or sinks them in the grave; He gives, and, blessed be his name! He takes but what he gave. Peace, all our angry passions, then; Let each rebellious sigh Be silent at his sovereign will, And every murmur die. If smiling mercy crown our lives, Its praises shall be spread; And we'll adore the justice too That strikes our comforts dead.
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