And man is exiled from its bowers,
Still mercy steals through bolt and bar,
And brings away its choicest flowers.
The very toil, the thorns of care,
That Heaven in wrath for sin imposes,
By mercy changed, no curses are—
One brings us rest, the other roses.
Thus joy is linked with every woe—
Each cup of ill its pleasure brings;
The rose is crushed, but then, you know,