Classic Poem

Anxious cares and boding fears,
Vexers of my soul, away.
'Tis not chance that rolls the spheres,
'Tis not chance that rules the day.

Who to man his lot decides?
He that man and all things made,
Who the good and ill divides?
He that form'd the light and shade.

Can thy painful thought increase
In thy height a single span?
Yet thy life uphold in peace?
Is all that the work of man?

Foolish mortals, bend your toil
Heav'nly treasure to secure:
Then, upon this earthly soil,
Of all needful things be sure.

Well, your heav'nly Father knows
For your wants the fit supply:
He on you his heav'n bestows:
Will he meat on earth deny?

Dread not slander, nor disease,
Safe beneath almighty shade:
If your proving he decrees,
Trust in his supporting aid.

Not a sparrow falls to earth,
Without God's permissive will:
Far exceeding is your worth,
Who his holy laws fulfill.

Child of God, in death's dark vale
On thy father's goodness lean:
He will ne'er his children leave,
In their last and trying scene.