I look about me, sick and faint
of soul;
The dwelling of God's glory is my
goal.
But, though I look about so
constantly,
No answer comes, none turns to
rescue me.
Yet, as I wander through the
grassy dale,
Or higher, as the mountain crags
I scale,
Until alone on lonely peaks I
gaze,
I grieve for having left my
Saviour's ways.
And when I think how gentle is
his touch,
And how his justice could demand
so much,
My mind is changed, my labours
seem the less,
and I regret my former
foolishness.
Why should I rail on fortune or
repine?
Why should I grieve? God's remedy
is mine.
Endure, then, as philosophers maintain
A brace man should, adversity and
pain.
