Someone on Twitter tweeted part of a poem that I think is fitting, it dates to 1666, the Great Fire of London.
Upon the Burning of Our House by Anne Bradstreet:
Then, coming out, behold a space / The flame consume my dwelling place. / And when I could no longer look, / I blest His name that gave and took, / That laid my goods now in the dust. / Yea, so it was, and so ‘twas just. / It was his own, it was not mine, / Far be it that I should repine
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