Slaves they become to luxury and pride,
As clocks remaining in the skilful hand
Of some great master, at the figure stand,
But, when abroad, neglected they do go,
At random strike, and the false hour do show;
So from our Maker wandering we stray,
Like birds that know not to their nests the way.
In Him we dwelt before our exile here,
And may, returning, find contentment there,
True joy may find, perfection of delight,