The Pursuit

By Henry Vaughan

LORD ! what a busy, restless thing

                  Hast Thou made man !

       Each day and hour he is on wing,

                  Rests not a span ;

       Then having lost the sun and light,

                  By clouds surpris'd,

       He keeps a commerce in the night

                  With air disguis'd.

       Hadst Thou given to this active dust

                  A state untir'd,

       The lost son had not left the husk,

                  Nor home desir'd.

       That was Thy secret, and it is

                  Thy mercy too ;

       For when all fails to bring to bliss,

                  Then this must do.

Ah, Lord ! and what a purchase will that be,

To take us sick, that sound would not take Thee !