by Henry Vaughan

        LORD ! what a busy, restless thing
                   Hast Thou made man !
        Each day and hour he is on wing,
                   Rests not a span ;
        Then having lost the sun and light,
                   By clouds surpris'd,
        He keeps a commerce in the night
                   With air disguis'd.
        Hadst Thou given to this active dust
                   A state untir'd,
        The lost son had not left the husk,
                   Nor home desir'd.
        That was Thy secret, and it is
                   Thy mercy too ;
        For when all fails to bring to bliss,
                   Then this must do.
Ah, Lord ! and what a purchase will that be,
To take us sick, that sound would not take Thee !

Vaughan, Henry. The Poems of Henry Vaughan, Silurist. vol I.
E. K. Chambers, Ed. London, Lawrence & Bullen Ltd., 1896. 48.

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