Classic Poem

Some cry aloud of violence,
Whom God does not regard;
He hears the cries of penitence,
When passion is not heard.

They under great oppression groan,
But ne'er remember God;
Nor notice what his hand hath done,
But wail the heavy rod.

None say, O where's my Maker great,
Who now can make me whole?
But where's my healthy, wealthy state,
And where's my heartsome bowl?

They never after God inquire,
Who soon can ease bestow;
And as he did their breath inspire,
Can moderate their woe:

Who, in the night of miseries,
Can give them songs of joy,
And sweeten earth's calamities
With heav'n's august employ:

Who gave to man, to guide him right,
And passion to control,
A portion of etherial light,
A reasonable soul:

Which thus might argue. “He whose care
“Does tenderly protect
“Beasts of the earth, birds of the air,
“Will never man neglect.”

Yet man, 'bove these tho' honour'd high,
His reason prostitutes,
Who does of wants and trouble cry,
No otherwise than brutes.

These crying with their best instinct,
Their God does them sustain;
But men their nobler reason sink,
And therefore cry in vain.

God proud and wicked suits denies,
He sees the inmost mind:
In vain to Heav'n they raise their cries,
Who leave their souls behind.