A memorial volume of sacred poetry by the late Sir John Bowring. To which is prefixed, a memoir of the author, by Lady Bowring |
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The Heart knoweth its own Bitterness.
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 | A memorial volume of sacred poetry |  |
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The Heart knoweth its own Bitterness.
Though the stream of being floweth
Calmly to the sea of peace,
Though the weary pilgrim goeth
To his home of sleep and ease—
None, but he who suffers, knoweth
All a spirit's bitterness.
Calmly to the sea of peace,
Though the weary pilgrim goeth
To his home of sleep and ease—
None, but he who suffers, knoweth
All a spirit's bitterness.
Thoughts there are with misery in them,
Sharper than the wintry wind:
Wounds there are, though none have seen them,
Rankling in the inner mind—
Woes, with not a joy between them,
Dark and vague and undefined.
Sharper than the wintry wind:
Wounds there are, though none have seen them,
Rankling in the inner mind—
Woes, with not a joy between them,
Dark and vague and undefined.
Is there for a spirit broken,
Is there balm of Gilead here?
Yes! the Lord—the Lord hath spoken,
Draw, ye sons of suffering, near
Christ, the Word—His cross the token—
See the cross—and banish fear.
Is there balm of Gilead here?
Yes! the Lord—the Lord hath spoken,
Draw, ye sons of suffering, near
Christ, the Word—His cross the token—
See the cross—and banish fear.
| A memorial volume of sacred poetry | |