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How sorely, Lord, are thy weak creatures tried!
But here and there Thy name is glorified;
Some soul made strong in faith, lifts up its cross;
Shining with light that turns our crowns to dross;
One drops the world, and lifting empty hands,
That draw down heaven in prayer, triumphant stands;
But for the most, they lift the blind man's cry
To men, and hear no Christ that passeth by.

 

Have I not seen pain with no end but pain?
Sorrow that worketh death; loss borne in vain?
Did thy word fail, or went it some long way
To come with greater joy another day?
This only comforts me, for all I see;
Thy ways are high, Thy thought too deep for me;
My April day with here and there a bud,
Faintly foretells the summer's glory-flood--
I have not seen the end of any strife,
Nor read the meaning of a single life.