DID it not answer some benign intent
To mortify the flesh, and mend the mind,
The Sire of mercies never wou'd have sent
Disease, on any of our favour'd kind.

God, doubtless, saw the danger of thy soul
O'erwhelm'd with sins of an enormous size,
And that He ne'er cou'd have preserv'd it whole,
Did He not by disease those sins chastize.

Had it not been for that imbitter'd bowl,
Which the inveterate disease o'ercame,
Thy unrepentant, unforgiven soul
Must have been doom'd to everlasting flame.

By corp'ral smart and agonizing pain,
God saves the soul, and to its Saviour leads;
Where flowing bliss and endless joys remain
For him, who reformation's footsteps treads.

Through sickness, 'tis that God impels the heart,
The sacred aid of Jesus to desire,
And gives salvation to the nobler part,
Lest it shou'd go to hell's tremendous fire.

By some short transient fits He oft restrains
The sons of men from everlasting dole,
And by inflicting on them grievous pains,
He mortifies the flesh, to save the soul.

Not only pain, but punishment severe,
Thy sins have merited, and vengeance dire:
Thy sickness then with resignation bear ;
Since it, in love, was sent thee by thy Sire.

Thy neck, for thy bad life, He might have bow'd,
And hurl'd thee headlong to the abyss of hell,
(Not the least time for penitence allow'd!)
Amongst the damn'd in penal fire to dwell.

Then thank him for the terrors He employ'd,
And the correction He so kindly sent :
Since He might utterly have thee destroy'd,
Or in Gehenna's gloomy prison pent.

Had God so will'd, thou mightest have been seiz'd
And sore tormented, at the foe's command;
Whereas He now most graciously is pleas'd,
To punish thee with a paternal hand.

The Lord does not chastize thee - like a foe,
Who joys to see his enemy undone,
But with most mild indulgence treats thee so,
As a fond sire wou'd treat a fav'rite son.

Though thou art roughly-handled by thy God,
Yet still the humbled penitent he loves;
Each gentle stroke of his correcting rod,
An antidote, or healing plaster, proves.

Thy God, whose goodness none can e'er express,
And thy celestial Sire, so wisely-kind!
Will not inflict diseases, or distress,
Which are not wholly for thy good design'd.

God does thy pain, thy frame, thy pow'rs of mind,
Thy temper, and thy constitution know :
A cross, that suits thy nature, thou shalt find;
No load, above thy strength, He'll on thee throw.

Tho' aloes is full bitter to the taste,
Yet many a man has it preserv'd from death;
So, though all ails are grievous, while they last,
Yet oft they keep us from the pit beneath.

Some thousands now in fell Gehenna groan,
Who wou'd endure a greater load of pain,
And there for years unnumber'd make their moan,
Cou'd they, then, hope redemption to obtain.

It is a certain token of God's love,
By some disease to feel his weighty hand,
Which may prepare us for the realms above,
Ere we before his dread tribunal stand.

Disease is but a whip, to scourge design'd,
Not a sharp sword, ordain'd to murder thee,
'Tis a keen goad, to wake the torpid mind,
And not an ax, to fell the growing tree.

It is a flail, thy chaffy corn to thresh,
A fan, to purge the floor, thou didst neglect,
A furnace 'tis, to purify thy flesh,
An iron rod thy errors to correct.

Honey is not, for a full stomach, good,
Nor, for ungodly men, a prosp'rous way,
Wine, for the fev'rish, is no proper food,
Nor is health good, for those that disobey.

Thou hast not near so great a share of pain,
As many of thy brethren have endur'd,
Who now in the celestial seats remain,
The former pass'd, from future woes secur'd.

Poor Lazarus endur'd more pungent woe,
And Job with heavier troubles was opprest,
(E'en Christ himself did greater undergo)
But they in endless bliss at present rest.

If thou'lt be therefore patient in distress,
God will indulge thee this peculiar grace:
'He'll either make thy pains and troubles less,
'Or else receive thee to his holy place.'