Grows callous, and insensible to pain,
All cicatrized, it hardens with the blow
Which lays its fairest hopes and prospects low;
But softer grows the heart whose wounds are heal’d
By Gilead’s balm, sweet cure from Heaven reveal’d.
If purest joys must from affliction spring,
Then welcome grief, and lonely sorrowing!
A few brief years at most shall pass, before
Sorrow shall cease, and grief shall be no more.
I would not always live this dying life,