Though trouble springs not from the dust,

nor sorrow from the ground;

Yet ills on ills, by Heav’n’s decree,

in man’s estate are found.

As sparks in close succession rise,

so man, the child of woe,

Is doomed to endless cares and toils

through all his life below.

But with my God I leave my cause;

from him I seek relief;

To him, in confidence of prayer

unbosom all my grief.

Unnumbered are his wondrous works,

unsearchable his ways;

’Tis his the mourning soul to cheer,

the bowed down to raise.