My Soul, Why Art Thou Full of Trouble?

My soul, why art thou full of trouble
And overwhelmed with grief?
Dost thou not know this world’s a bubble
And cannot yield relief?

This life’s a dream of mirth or sorrow
Envelopéd in night;
The Resurrection’s1
 like the morrow,
As full of life as light.

Then slight these terrene2
 hopes, as toys3
;
Think thou of better things.
From all her4
 pleasures and her joys,
Nought but repentance springs.

Thy mortal nature ne’er deplore,
Let Death work all her spite;
For thou shalt live, when Death’s no more,
In everlasting light5
.

What, though thou into ashes turn,
Thy dust will find a tomb
Within some safe and silent urn
In black Oblivion’s womb.

Whether thou water dost increase,
Or fire, or air, or earth6
;
Yet am I sure to rest in peace;
My soul assumes7
 her birth.

And if Pythagoras8
 saw clear,
Of this thou mayest resolve:
Some lamb, or dove, then to appear,
No toad shall thee involve9
.

Then whether dissolution10
,
Or transmigration,
Or rolling revolution,
All ends in thy salvation.

Nothing shall then afflict my soul
That passeth here below;
For I above the highest pole11
Or star ere12
 long shall go.

Forget I shall, then, my sad story13
;
And all my past annoys
Shall swallowed be of14
 infinite glory
And crowned15
 with endless joys.