Classic Poem

When comes my hour to die,
Lord, suffer me not slow lingering to lie
Feeble on bed of sickness, racked with pain.

O suffer me to gain
A speedier exit from this world I love:
Love, if it be too warmly, yet approve

My gratitude, that Thou
So dear hast made to me, I here avow,
The Beauty of Thy hand displayed therein;

Yea, count it for no sin
I paid Thee worship best through admiration
Of the fair marvels in Thy earth's creation.