Classic Poem

The man of sorrows, Jesus Christ,
A mourner all his days,
Yet once, in spirit glad address'd
To God this song of praise;

O Father, Lord of heav'n and earth,
Whose right it is withal,
To doom the rebel man to death,
Or raise him from his fall.

I thank thee that Heav'n's mysteries
To babes thou showest bright,
While from the learn'd and worldly-wise,
Thou hidest the saving sight.

From men of prudence, and of pride,
These things thou hast conceal'd,
Which to thy weak and simple bride,
Thou plainly hast reveal'd.

Ev'n so, dear Father, since thy will
Ordain'd it to be so;
For down the proud thou lov'st to pull,
And lay the haughty low.

[Thou dealing thus, dost sov'reignly
Thy great decrees fulfil;
Choose some to life, while others die;
Yet thou art righteous still.

Shall mortals grumble? shall a rush
Imagine God unjust?
Who soon, as he can make, can crush
A thousand worlds to dust.

O teach men, not thy deep decree ,
But written will to trace;
And in thy Son to come and see
The wonders of thy grace.]