Great had her sorrow been,
Anguish and woe,
Pouring their full fury,
Bearing her low.
But, in agony sore,
The affliction she bore
Meek as a child.
Though every breath was in agony seethed,
Yet not a murmur her parched lips breathed,
So passively mild.
All the earth's gladness
Is but as sadness
Unto her now.
All its gay pleasures
And its great treasures
Are but as measures
Empty and vain.
Peace, peace in her soul
Has fullest control.