Consolation
How excellent her time would be?
In paradise dear God with thee.
Thou short her hourglass on earth,
The more would be her time of mirth.
I can but write of sure believe,
Alas it's truth she won’t receive.
There’s nothing, nothing I can do,
Then place my trust dear God in you,
Thou alone knowest the end,
For all thei children’s destinies
Are written in the hollow of thy hand.
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