Page:Memoir of the Reverend David Wilson (1).pdf/22

 Its weightiness does try my back, That faith and patience be not slack, It is a fanning wild whereby I am unchaff′d of vanity.

A furnace to refine my grace, A wing to lift my soul apace; Hence still the more I sob distrest, The more I sing my endless rest.

Mine enemies that seek my hurt, Of all their bad designs come short; They serve me fully to my mind, With favours which they ne′er design′d.

The fury of my foes makes me Fast to my peaceful refuge flee: And ev′ry persecuting elf Does make me understand myself.

Their slanders cannot work my shame, Their vile reproaches raise my name; In peace with Heav′n my soul can dwell, Ev′n when they damn me down to hell.

Their fury can′t the treaty harm, Their passion does my pity warm; Their madness only calms my blood; By doing hurt they do my good.