 | Songs in many keys |  |
67
BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN.
What sayest thou, O soul,—'tis hard to bear
Life's weary burdens,—crushing weight of pain,
Grief that is speechless,—dull corroding care,
Hopes unfulfilled that burn into the brain,
A breaking heart,—sore travail,—bitter throe,
All that makes up life's mystery of woe?
Life's weary burdens,—crushing weight of pain,
Grief that is speechless,—dull corroding care,
Hopes unfulfilled that burn into the brain,
A breaking heart,—sore travail,—bitter throe,
All that makes up life's mystery of woe?
Thou faintest in the dark and cloudy day,
And weepest o'er thy early withered flowers,
Recoiling from the rough and thorn-strewn way,
And from the loneliness of cheerless hours.
Thou deem'st it hard, poor soul, so oft to say,
“Father, I pray, let this cup pass away!”
And weepest o'er thy early withered flowers,
Recoiling from the rough and thorn-strewn way,
And from the loneliness of cheerless hours.
Thou deem'st it hard, poor soul, so oft to say,
“Father, I pray, let this cup pass away!”
'Tis hard from lovers and from friends to part,
To break the bonds of past and precious years,
To see death come and sunder heart from heart,
And ope afresh the spring of flowing tears;—
'Tis hard in homes from which the light is gone
To sit in silence, weeping and alone.
To break the bonds of past and precious years,
To see death come and sunder heart from heart,
And ope afresh the spring of flowing tears;—
68
To sit in silence, weeping and alone.
But would'st thou shun the sorrow and the loss,
And pass through life and never shed a tear?
Would'st thou escape the sharpness of the cross,
And never know what 'tis to doubt or fear?
For thus would heav'n itself the poorer be,
And prove, sad soul, but half a heav'n to thee.
And pass through life and never shed a tear?
Would'st thou escape the sharpness of the cross,
And never know what 'tis to doubt or fear?
For thus would heav'n itself the poorer be,
And prove, sad soul, but half a heav'n to thee.
For thou a wonder wouldest be to all
Who win the glories of that radiant place;
They drank on earth the wormwood and the gall,
Dust on their robes and sweat upon their face;
Each saint that finds before God's throne a home,
From tribulation, grief, and pain has come.
Who win the glories of that radiant place;
They drank on earth the wormwood and the gall,
Dust on their robes and sweat upon their face;
Each saint that finds before God's throne a home,
From tribulation, grief, and pain has come.
And what if thou alone had'st felt no ill,
Nor known what 'tis for tortured hearts to bleed,—
Had'st never bent submissive to God's will,
Or turned to Him in hours of sorest need,—
Had'st never felt affliction's rankling smart,
The sword's sharp smiting, or the festering dart?
Nor known what 'tis for tortured hearts to bleed,—
Had'st never bent submissive to God's will,
Or turned to Him in hours of sorest need,—
Had'st never felt affliction's rankling smart,
The sword's sharp smiting, or the festering dart?
69
Say, what if thou, in those blest mansions where
Enraptured saints, white-robed, their God adore,
Alone no likeness of thy Lord should'st wear,
No marks of Him the crown of thorns who bore?
Would'st thou not mourn the everlasting loss,
That thou, and only thou, had borne no cross?
Enraptured saints, white-robed, their God adore,
Alone no likeness of thy Lord should'st wear,
No marks of Him the crown of thorns who bore?
Would'st thou not mourn the everlasting loss,
That thou, and only thou, had borne no cross?
Then welcome sorrow with no shade of fear,
An angel entertained all unawares;
Shrink not reluctant from her mien severe,
For life and healing on her wing she bears.
Let praise for suff'ring, heart and tongue employ;
'Tis they who sow in tears shall reap in joy.
An angel entertained all unawares;
Shrink not reluctant from her mien severe,
For life and healing on her wing she bears.
Let praise for suff'ring, heart and tongue employ;
'Tis they who sow in tears shall reap in joy.
A Song.
What aileth thee, fair moon,
That thou dost look so white and wan?
Art sad that thou so soon
Must wane before the coming dawn,—
That all thy regal splendours bright
Must fade and vanish with the night?
That thou dost look so white and wan?
Art sad that thou so soon
Must wane before the coming dawn,—
That all thy regal splendours bright
Must fade and vanish with the night?
I grieve to see thee pale,—
Sorrow becometh not a queen.
Is it that earth's unceasing wail
Troubles the pure serene?
And dost thou pity then her throes,
Her sin, her travail, and her woes?
Sorrow becometh not a queen.
70
Troubles the pure serene?
And dost thou pity then her throes,
Her sin, her travail, and her woes?
Or is't that thou dost mourn
That there is drawing near a time
When, having reached the bourne,
Thou shalt no more in beauty climb
The purple spaces of the sky,
With golden planets sweeping by?
That there is drawing near a time
When, having reached the bourne,
Thou shalt no more in beauty climb
The purple spaces of the sky,
With golden planets sweeping by?
A Song.
We part on Time's sad shore,
Alone I go before;
But where to meet and when, O love, again?
Beyond the shadows where all tears are o'er,
There meet we evermore.
Alone I go before;
But where to meet and when, O love, again?
Beyond the shadows where all tears are o'er,
There meet we evermore.
Let us be calm and strong;
The parting is not long,
And you, like me, shall pass the ebon door,
Beyond which lie sweet light, and love, and song,
For ever, evermore.
The parting is not long,
And you, like me, shall pass the ebon door,
Beyond which lie sweet light, and love, and song,
For ever, evermore.
71
A Song.
O youth, O love, O spring!
I hear the copses ring,
As long ago in happy days of yore,
When like the birds my joyous heart did sing;
Alas! it sings no more.
I hear the copses ring,
As long ago in happy days of yore,
When like the birds my joyous heart did sing;
Alas! it sings no more.
Ah, now 'tis still and mute,
Like some poor broken lute,
Whose chords no hand shall e'er again sweep o'er,
Which lies unstrung, neglected, at the foot,—
Silent for evermore.
Like some poor broken lute,
Whose chords no hand shall e'er again sweep o'er,
Which lies unstrung, neglected, at the foot,—
Silent for evermore.
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