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[Impatient of a Father's rod]

Job cursed his day. —iii. 1.

Impatient of a Father's rod,
In gloomy, discontented pain,
No more I quarrel with my God,
Of life ungratefully complain;
But humbled in the dust, approve
The kind design of heavenly love.
Bless'd be the day that I was born
A candidate for endless bliss!
If to my latest hour I mourn,
Yet will I praise my God for this,

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Bear up beneath a weight of clay,
And triumph in my natal day.