Wesley Corpus

Upon Parting with His Friends. Part I Part III Part III. Why should a sinful man complain, When mildly chasten'd for his good? Start from the salutary pain, And tremble at a Father's rod? Why should I grieve his hand t' endure, Or murmur to accept my cure? Beneath th' afflictive stroke I fall, And struggle to give up my will; Weeping I own 'tis mercy all; Mercy pursues and holds me still, Kindly refuses to depart, And strongly vindicates my heart. Humbly I now the rod revere, And mercy in the judgment find; 'Tis God afflicts; I own him near; 'Tis he, 'tis he severely kind, Watches my soul with jealous care, Disdainful of a rival there. 'Tis hence my ravish'd friends I mourn, And grief weighs down my weary head, Far from my bleeding bosom torn, The dear, lov'd, dangerous joys are fled, Hence my complaining never ends, Oh! I have lost my friends, my friends! Long my reluctant folly held, Nor gave them to my God's command; Hardly at length constrain'd to yield; For Oh! The angel seiz'd my hand, Broke off my grasp, forbad my stay, And forc'd my ling'ring soul away.