1 Not from relentless fate's dark womb,
Or from the dust, our troubles come.
No fickle chance presides o'er grief,
To cause the pain, or send relief.

2 Look up, and see, ye sorrowing saints!
The cause and cure of your complaints,
Know, 'tis your heav'nly father's will:
Bid ev'ry murmur then be still.

3 He sees, we need the painful yoke;
Yet love directs his heaviest stroke.
He takes no pleasure in our smart,
But wounds to heal and cheer the heart.

4 Bless'd trials those, that cleanse from sin,
And make the soul all pure within,
Wean the fond mind from earthly toys,
To seek and taste celestial joys!