Softly, softly, do not murmur
At thy humble, lowly lot,
Discontent will make thee poorer—
They are rich who covet not;
What though many trials meet thee,
What though friends no longer greet thee,
What though men are ever slighting—shunning thee because thou'rt poor,
This should not distress thee, pilgrim—does not heaven contain thy store!
O my poor, afflicted brother,
Let me kindly counsel thee:
Be it still thy chief endeavour
To possess tranquillity;
Trials come to all in turn—
Man is unto trouble born—
Christ was poor, despised, forsaken, and the path of sorrow trod,
And must we expect a portion better than the Son of God?
