 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
95
O LACRIMARUM FONS
O holiest fount of sorrow, treasured tears;
O eager consolation of sick grief;
That bring to burdened sadness pure relief,
Ye have no fellowship with craven fears!
O eager consolation of sick grief;
That bring to burdened sadness pure relief,
Ye have no fellowship with craven fears!
True tears are sorrow's guerdon, for they prove
The worth of suffering, that the sacred dart
Hath struck, and shivered the incredulous heart,
And pierced the secret amplitude of love.
The worth of suffering, that the sacred dart
Hath struck, and shivered the incredulous heart,
And pierced the secret amplitude of love.
For of thy shafts, that hourly past us flame,
Some taint and mar our innocence, and some
Are bent and blunted by the stubborn mind,
Or throb and rankle in the tortured frame:
But I will pray, if Thy strong hands are kind,
“Let them strike home, my God, let them strike home!”
Some taint and mar our innocence, and some
Are bent and blunted by the stubborn mind,
Or throb and rankle in the tortured frame:
But I will pray, if Thy strong hands are kind,
“Let them strike home, my God, let them strike home!”
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |