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
!
