For her relief; and that almighty arm
Rais’d her above the troubles of the earth.
They little know what solid comfort is,
Who ne’er have turn’d to Heaven in sorrow’s hour!
Thrice happy man, corrected of the Lord!
Whose roots are torn from earth’s most wretched soil,
Whene’er they shoot their clinging fibres down.
O, let me ever be uprooted thus!
If I be watered with the dews of Heaven,
I still shall flourish in celestial green,