Hymn CCXXVIII. Long Metre. On the Death of a Child

So fades the lovely blooming flower, Frail, smiling solace of an hour! So soon our transient comforts fly, And pleasure only blooms to die!

To certain trouble we are born, Hope to rejoice, but sure to mourn; Ah wretched effort! sad relief! To plead necessity of grief!

Is there no kind, no lenient art To heal the anguish of the heart? To ease the heavy load of care Which nature must, but dreads to bear?

Can reason's dictates be obey'd? Too weak, alas, her strongest aid! O let religion then be nigh, Her consolations never die.

Her powerful aid supports the soul, And nature owns her kind control; Whilst she unfolds the sacred page, Our fiercest griefs resign their rage.

Then gentle patience smiles on pain, And dying hope revives again; Hope wipes the tear from sorrow's eye, And faith points upward to the sky.

The promise guides her ardent flight, And joys, unknown to sense, invite, Those blissful regions to explore, Where pleasure blooms, to fade no more.