Poor angry bosom, hush,

Poor angry bosom, hush,
Nor discontented grow;
But at thy own sad folly blush,
Which breedeth all the woe.

If sick, or lame, or poor,
Or by the world abhorred,
Whatever cross lies at thy door,
It cometh from the Lord.

The lions will not tear,
The billows cannot heave,
The furnace shall not singe thy hair,
Till Jesus give them leave.

The Lord is just and true,
And upright in his way;
He loves, but will correct us too,
Whene'er we run astray.

With caution we should tread,
For as we sow we reap,
And oft bring mischief on our head,
By some unwary step.

Lord, plant a godly fear
Before my roving eyes,
Lest some hid snake or wily snare
My heedless feet surprise.

Or should I start aside,
And meet a scourging God,
Let not my heart grow stiff with pride,
But weep and kiss the rod.