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128
SOLACE IN SICKNESS.
Clouded with sickness, Lord, languid with pain,I cannot work or meditate or pray;
The night is dreary, and forlorn the day.
From Nature or from Grace I seek in vain
Some gleam of comfort. Shall I not complain
Of precious golden sands, which slip away
Out of Time's hour-glass, touched with no sweet ray
Of service, or of spiritual gain?
“Not so!” a Voice replied. “For each dark hour
Patiently borne, for each sharp pain and ache,
An added jewel in thy crown shall shake,
And gathered ‘weight’ accrue to ‘Glory's’ dower.
Sufferings are gifts; accept them for My sake,
And from earth's sighs Heaven's music shall awake.”
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