Classic Poem

The SUBMISSION.

However hard, my God, thy terms appear,
Howe'er to sense afflicting and severe,
To any articles I can agree,
Rather than bear the thoughts of losing thee:
Exact whate'er thou wilt, we'll never part,
Nothing shall force thy image from my heart.
Thou still art good, howe'er thou deal with me.
Spotless thy truth, unstain'd thy purity:
Amidst my suff'rings still I'll own thee just,
And in thy wonted mercy firmly trust.
Whate'er becomes of such a wretch as me,
Thy equal ways shall still unblemish'd be;
The sons of men shall still thy grace proclaim,
And place their refuge to thy mighty name;
Thro' all the wide-extended realms above,
Bright angels shall proclaim thy wond'rous love:
Ev'n I shall yet adore thy wonted grace,
Tho' darkness now conceals thy lovely face.
But, oh! how long shall I thy absence mourn?
When, when wilt thou, my sun, my life, return?
Thou only can'st my drooping soul sustain,
Of nothing but thy distance I complain.