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.

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.

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.

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!”