Thou sweet hand of God, that so woundest my heart,
Thou makest me smile while thou mak'st me to smart;
It seems as if God were at ball-play; and I,
The harder he strikes me the higher I fly.
I own it, he bruises, he pierces me sore;
But the hammer and chisel afflict me no more.
Shall I tell you the reason? It is that I see
The Sculptor will carve out an angel for me.
I shrink from no suffering, how painful soe'er,
When once I can feel that my God's hand is there;
For soft on the anvil the iron shall glow
When the Smith with his hammer deals blow upon blow.
God presses me hard, but he gives patience, too!
And I say to myself, "'Tis no more than my due,"
And no tone from the organ can swell on the breeze
Till the organist's fingers press down on the keys.
So come, then, and welcome the blow and the pain!
Without them no mortal to heaven can attain;
For what can the sheaves on the barn floor avail
Till the thresher shall beat out the chaff with his flail?
'Tis only a moment God chastens with pain;
Joy follows on sorrow like sunshine on rain.
Then bear thou what God on thy spirit shall lay;
Be dumb; but, when tempted to murmur, then pray.
--From the German.
When thou hast thanked thy God for every blessing sent,
What time will then remain for murmurs or lament?
We must live through the weary winter
If we would value the spring;
And the woods must be cold and silent
Before the robins sing.
The flowers must lie buried in darkness
Before they can bud and bloom;
And the sweetest and warmest sunshine
Comes after the storm and gloom.
--Agnes L. Pratt.
We look along the shining ways,
To see the angel faces;
They come to us in darkest days
And in the blackest places.
The strongest hearts have strongest need,
To them the fiery trial;
Who walks a saint in word and deed
Is saint by self-denial.
Is it true, O Christ in heaven,
That the strongest suffer most,
That the wisest wander farthest,
And most hopelessly are lost?
That the mark of rank in nature
Is capacity for pain,
That the anguish of the singer
Makes the sweetness of the strain?
O, block by block, with sore and sharp endeavor,
Lifelong we build these human natures up
Into a temple fit for freedom's shrine.
And trial ever consecrates the cup
Wherefrom we pour her sacrificial wine.
--James Russell Lowell.
But all God's angels come to us disguised;
Sorrow and sickness, poverty and death,
One after other lift their frowning masks,
And we behold the seraph's face beneath
All radiant with the glory and the calm
Of having looked upon the front of God.
--James Russell Lowell.
The man whom God delights to bless
He never curses with success.
Thrice happy loss which makes me see
My happiness is all in thee.
--Charles Wesley.
Who ne'er has suffered, he has lived but half.
Who never failed, he never strove or sought.
Who never wept is stranger to a laugh
And he who never doubted never thought.
--J. B. Goode.
I thank thee, Lord, that all my joy
Is touched with pain;
That shadows fall on brightest hours;
That thorns remain;
So that earth's bliss may be my guide,
And not my chain.
Would'st thou from sorrow find a sweet relief?
Or is thy heart oppressed with woes untold?
Balm would'st thou gather for corroding grief?
Pour blessings round thee like a shower of gold.
Art thou weary, tender heart?
Be glad of pain;
In sorrow sweetest things will grow
As flowers in rain.
God watches; and thou wilt have sun
When clouds their perfect work have done.
--Lucy Larcom.
'Tis sorrow builds the shining ladder up,
Whose golden rounds are our calamities
Whereon our firm feet planting nearer God
The spirit climbs, and hath its eyes unsealed.
--James Russell Lowell.
In the pleasant orchard closes,
"God bless all our gains," say we;
But "May God bless all our losses,"
Better suits with our degree.
--Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
Our toil is sweet with thankfulness,
Our burden is our boon;
The curse of earth's gray morning is
The blessing of its noon.
--John Greenleaf Whittier.
I hold it true, whate'er befall,
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.
--Alfred Tennyson.
The fountain of joy is fed by tears,
And love is lit by the breath of sighs;
The deepest griefs and the wildest fears
Have holiest ministries.
--Josiah Gilbert Holland.
I held it truth, with him who sings
To one clear harp in divers tones
That men may rise on stepping stones
Of their dead selves to higher things.
--Alfred Tennyson.
When God afflicts thee, think he hews a rugged stone,
Which must be shaped or else aside as useless thrown.
--Richard Chenevix Trench.
My sorrows have not been so light
Thy chastening hand I could not trace,
Nor have my blessings been so great
That they have hid my Father's face.
Put pain from out the world, what room were left
For thanks to God, for love to man?
--Robert Browning.
Heaven is not always angry when he strikes,
But most chastises those whom most he likes.
--John Pomfret.
The good are better made by ill,
As odors crushed are sweeter still.
--Samuel Rogers.
Only those are crowned and sainted
Who with grief have been acquainted.
--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.