The Pursuit

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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 !

© Henry Vaughan