Ode to Adversity

If on this roof, high heaven should send, Thy hand corrective fair, Submissive teach my soul to bend, But keep her from despair.

Fate's awful word must sure be just, Then let me kiss the rod; Nor worn with woe, at all distrust, The goodness of my God.

The hand that form'd my inmost thoughts, Must needs be great and wise: And he who best perceives my faults, The sittest to chastise.

Then, 'till life's latest sands are run, O teach me, power divine! To cry—my God, thy will be done— What e'er becomes of mine.