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1Though 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.
2As sparks in close succession rise,
so man, the child of woe,
Is doom’d to endless cares and toils
through all his life below.
3But with my God I leave my cause;
from him I seek relief;
To him, in confidence of pray’r,
unbosom all my grief.
4Unnumber’d are his wondrous works,
unsearchable his ways;
’Tis his the mourning soul to cheer,
the bowed down to raise.