Why does the will of Heav'n ordain
A world so mix'd with woe?
Why pour down want, disease, and pain,
On wretched men below?
It was the will of God to leave
These ills for man to mend,
Nor let affliction pass the grave,
Before it found a friend.
It was by sympathetic ties
The human race to bind;
To warm the heart, and fill the eyes,
With pity for our kind.
Pity, that, like the Heav'nly bow,
On darkest cloud doth shine,
And makes, with a celestial glow,
The human face divine.
Where Mercy takes her 'custom'd stand,
To bid her flock rejoice,
'Tis there, with grace extends the hand,
There, Music tunes the voice.
And he who speaks in Mercy's name,
No fiction needs, nor art;
The still, small voice of Nature's claim,
Re-echoes through each heart.
Where Pity's frequent tear is shed,
There God is seen, is found;
Descends upon the hallow'd head,
And sheds a glory round.
But Charity itself may fail,
Which doth not active prove;
Nor will the prayer of Faith avail,
Without the works of Love.