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Wellcome, what e’re my tender flesh may say,
Welcome affliction, to my reason, still,
Though hard, and ruged on that rock I lay,
A sure foundation, which if rais’d with skill,
Shall compasse Babel’s aim, and reach th’Almightys hill.
Wellcome the rod, that does adoption shew,
The cup, whose wholsome dregs are giv’n me here;
There is a day behind, if God be true,
When all these Clouds shall passe, & heav’n be clear,
When those whom most they shade, shall shine most glorious there.
Affliction is the line, which every Saint
Is measur’d by, his Stature taken right;
So much itt shrinks, as they repine or faint,
But if their faith, and Courage stand upright,
By that is made the Crown, and the full robe of light.