41.
My heart is sore oppress’d, with sighing
I think upon the days of yore;
The world was then in calmness lying,
And men were peaceful evermore.
All now is changed, in mournful chorus
Want and confusion round us spread;
The Lord seems dead that erst rul’d o’er us
Beneath us, is the Devil dead.
All now appears so drear and sadden’d,
Decay’d and cold, of joy bereft,
That, were we not by love still gladden’d,
No single resting-place were left.