1 Not from the dust affliction grows,
Nor troubles rise by chance;
Yet we are born to cares and woes,
A sad inheritance.
2 As sparks break out from burning coals,
And still are upwards borne,
So grief is rooted in our souls,
And man grows lip to mourn.
3 Yet with my God I leave my cause,
And trust his promis'd grace;
He rules me by his well-known laws
Of love and righteousness.
4 Not all the pains that e'er I bore
Shall spoil my future peace,
For death and hell can do no more
Than what my Father please.
Text Information | |
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First Line: | Not from the dust affliction grows |
Meter: | C. M. |
Publication Date: | 1828 |
Scripture: | |
Topic: | Afflictions and death under Providence; Christian experience: A pilgrimage |