Some souls there are, beloved of God,
Who, following where the saints have trod,
Learn such surrender of the will
They seem insensible of ill.
Yet, finely strung and sensitive,
They live far more than others live,
And grief's and pain's experience
Must be to them far more intense.
O mystery--that such can know
A life impregnable to woe!
O paradox that God alone
In secret proveth to his own!
It must be that supremest grace
So nerves them for the heavenly race
Their litanies are turned to psalms,
Their crosses, even here, to palms.
--Harriet McEwen Kimball.
When, courting slumber,
The hours I number,
And sad cares cumber
My weary mind,
This thought shall cheer me:
That thou art near me,
Whose ear to hear me
Is still inclined.
My soul thou keepest,
Who never sleepest;
'Mid gloom the deepest
There's light above;
Thine eyes behold me,
Thine arms enfold me;
Thy word has told me
That God is love.
We are not angels, but we may
Down in earth's corners kneel,
And multiply sweet acts of love,
And murmur what we feel.
--Frederick William Faber.
Through thee, meseems, the very rose is red,
From thee the violet steals its breath in May,
From thee draw life all things that grow not gray,
And by thy force the happy stars are sped.
--James Russell Lowell.