Thou sweet hand of God, that so woundest my heart,
Thou makest me smile while thou mak'st me to smart;
It seems as if God were at ball-play; and I,
The harder he strikes me the higher I fly.
I own it, he bruises, he pierces me sore;
But the hammer and chisel afflict me no more.
Shall I tell you the reason? It is that I see
The Sculptor will carve out an angel for me.
I shrink from no suffering, how painful soe'er,
When once I can feel that my God's hand is there;