"WHOM THE LORD LOVETH HE CHASTENETH."
And can it be, my father, God,
A mark of love to feel thy rod?
To have our rising hopes cut down,
And all thy Providences frown? It must be so! His word declares,
On those he loves he never spares
To lay his chastening hand; yet know,
'Tis love that gives the needed blow. Then let it be our constant care,
That we each trial rightly bear;
And though the present grievous be,
The righteous fruits we soon shall see. Cease, then, to heave one murmuring sigh,
And let each bitter tear be dry;
For since our Saviour leads the way,
Our griefs will end in joyous day. Ye suffering ones, fresh courage take,
The night is short, day soon will break;
And to your raptured souls disclose
An endless day of sweet repose. Made perfect through our sufferings here,
We, with those saints, their bliss shall share,
Who passed through tribulation's flood,
And washed their robes in Jesus' blood. Lord, 'tis enough! thy will be done;
And when our life's short journey's run,
We'll strike our golden harps and tell,
"That Jesus has done all things well."