The Pursuit
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!
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