The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
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| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
 | VIII. |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. | XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXII. |
| XXXIII. |
| XXXIV. |
| XXXV. |
| XXXVI. |
| XXXVII. |
| XXXVIII. |
| XXXIX. |
| XL. |
| XLI. |
| XLII. |
| XLIII. |
| XLIV. |
| XLV. |
| XLVI. |
| XLVII. |
| XLVIII. |
| XLIX. |
| L. |
| LI. |
| LII. |
| LIII. |
| LIV. |
| LV. |
| LVI. |
| LVII. |
| LVIII. |
| LIX. |
| LX. |
| LXI. |
| LXII. |
| LXIII. |
| LXIV. |
| LXV. |
| LXVI. |
| LXVII. |
| LXVIII. |
| LXIX. |
| LXX. |
| LXXI. |
| LXXII. |
| LXXIII. |
| LXXIV. |
| LXXV. |
| LXXVI. |
| LXXVII. |
| LXXVIII. |
| LXXIX. |
| LXXX. |
| LXXXI. |
| LXXXII. |
| LXXXIII. |
| LXXXIV. |
| LXXXV. |
| LXXXVI. |
| LXXXVII. |
| LXXXVIII. |
| LXXXIX. |
| XC. |
| XCI. |
| XCII. |
| XCIII. |
| XCIV. |
| XCV. |
| XCVI. |
| XCVII. |
| XCVIII. |
| XCIX. |
| C. |
| CI. |
| CII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
XXVI.
And if the sorrow of one
Be thus discounted, thus foreseen and known,
Can God in every case not hold his own
And cope with every grief beneath the sun?
Be thus discounted, thus foreseen and known,
Can God in every case not hold his own
And cope with every grief beneath the sun?
Not only with our grief,
But with the sorrow in each most distant star,—
If in those golden orbs there are
Souls clamorous for relief?
But with the sorrow in each most distant star,—
If in those golden orbs there are
Souls clamorous for relief?
97
Is all foreseen—this universe of ours,
Is it held safe within the Father's hand?
Is all foreknown and planned,—
Our human deaths, and even the deaths of flowers?
Is it held safe within the Father's hand?
Is all foreknown and planned,—
Our human deaths, and even the deaths of flowers?
Is there no pang too much?
No grief that cannot in the far-off end
By Love's transmuting touch
Be changed to joy, a foe become a friend?
No grief that cannot in the far-off end
By Love's transmuting touch
Be changed to joy, a foe become a friend?
Shall I be told, when pain is past,
By thine own lips, O mother, it may be,
Why thou wast taken thus from me?
Will death the conqueror be dethroned at last?
By thine own lips, O mother, it may be,
Why thou wast taken thus from me?
Will death the conqueror be dethroned at last?
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |