If Ever Any Beauty I Did See,

God Himself Took A Day To Rest In, And A Good Man's Grave Is His Sabbath.

O How Feeble Is Man's Power, That If Good Fortune Fall, Cannot Add Another Hour, Nor A Lost Hour Recall!

But Think That We Are But Turned Aside To Sleep.

I Observe The Physician With The Same Diligence As The Disease.

Now God Comes To Thee, Not As In The Dawning Of The Day, Not As In The Bud Of The Spring, But As The Sun At Noon To Illustrate All Shadows, As The Sheaves In Harvest, To Fill All Penuries, All Occasions Invite His Mercies, And All Times Are His Seasons.