1 Affliction's faded form draws nigh,
With wrinkled brow and downcast eye;
With sackcloth on her bosom spread,
And ashes scattered o'er her head.
2 But deem her not a child of earth;
From heaven she draws her sacred birth;
Beside the throne of God she stands
To execute his kind commands.
3 The messenger of love, she flies
To train us for our sphere, the skies;
And onward as we move, the way
Becomes more smooth, more bright the day.
4 Her weeds to robes of glory turn,
Her looks with kindling radiance burn;
And from her lips these accents steal, --
|God smites to bless, he wounds to heal!|