1 When sickness shakes the languid frame,
Each dazzling pleasure flies;
Phantoms of bliss no more obscure
Our long deluded eyes.

2 Then the tremendous arm of death
Its hated scepter shows;
And nature faints beneath the weight
Of complicated woes.

3 The tottering frame of mortal life
Shall crumble into dust,
Nature shall faint—but learn, my soul
On nature’s God to trust.

4 The man, whose pious heart is fixed
On his all gracious God,
In every frown may comfort find,
And kiss the chastening rod.

5 Nor him shall death itself alarm;
On Heav’n his soul relies;
With joy he views his Maker’s love,
And with composure dies.