XVII.
It well becomes frail man to acquiesce
In God’s most wise and holy providence;
Yea, though he bow his head in sore distress,
Borne down to earth by sufferings intense,
Still let him trust in God, his sure defence
Against the rushing tide; for sorrow’s flood
Can soon be stay’d by kind omnipotence.
Whene’er on us descends th’ afflictive rod,
Weak hearted though we be, our strength is found in God.