Written In Sickness
J
John Quincy Adams
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Lord Of all worlds, let thanks and praise
To thee forever fill my soul;
With blessings thou hast crowned my days
My heart, my head, my hand control:
O, let no vain presumption rise,
No impious murmur in my heart,
To crave the boon thy will denies,
Or shrink from ill thy hands impart.
Thy child am I, and not an hour,
Revolving in the orbs above,
But brings some token of thy power,
But brings some token of thy love:
And shall this bosom dare repine,
In darkness dare deny the dawn,
Or spurn the treasures of the mine,
Because one diamond is withdrawn?
The fool denies, the fool alone,
Thy being, Lord, and boundless might,
Denies the firmament, thy throne,
Denies the sun's meridian light;
Denies the fashion of his frame,
The voice he hears, the breath he draws;
O idiot atheist! to proclaim
Effects unnumbered without cause.
Matter and mind, mysterious one,
Are man's for threescore years and ten;
Where, ere the thread of life was spun?
Where, when reduced to dust again?
All-seeing God, the doubt suppress;
The doubt thou only canst relieve;
Thy soul thy Saviour-Son shall bless,
Fly to thy gospel, and believe.
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