Sent from the God of pow’r and love;
That leans upon its father’s hand,
As thro’ the wilderness we move.
By patience we serenely bear
The troubles of our mortal state,
And wait contented our discharge,
Nor think our glory comes too late.
Tho’ we, in full sensation, feel
The weight, the wounds, our God ordains,
We smile amidst our heaviest woe;
And triumph in our sharpest pains.
Thomas Gibbons 1720 - 1785 ( 64 Years )
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