’Tis thou can make our terrors vain,
And bid our torments cease.
Thy hand can draw the rankling thorn
From out the wounded breast;
Thy curtain screens the wretch forlorn,
Thy pallet gives him rest.
Misfortune’s sting, affliction’s throes,
Detraction’s pois’nous breath;
The world itself, and all its woes,
Are swallow’d up in death.