by Issac Watts

(Job 1:21)
Naked as from the earth we came,
And crept to life at first,
We to the earth return again,
And mingle with our dust.

The dear delights we here enjoy
And fondly call our own
Are but short favours borrowed now
To be repaid anon.

'Tis God that lifts our comforts high,
Or sinks 'em in the grave.
He gives, and (blessed be his Name)
He takes but what he gave.

Peace, all our angry passions then!
Let each rebellious sigh
Be silent at his sovereign will,
And every murmur die.

If smiling Mercy crown our lives
Its praises shall be spread,
And we'll adore the justice too
That strikes our comforts dead.

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