Lord I will take no comfort but of Thee!
I had an earthly plant—a pleasant vine,
From whose dear grapes I pressed delightful wine,
Which made my heart as merry as could be.
Thine anger hath cut down that cheerful tree;
Or at the least, (for yet I but divine,)
Thou hast cut off its joyful fruit from me,
And made its precious shade no longer mine.
Shall I then murmur? If my road henceforth
Lies but before me wearisome and bare,