So to the end, though now of mortal pangs Thou meetest all the storm. Thou wilt feel all, that Thou may'st pity all; And rather would'st Thou wrestle with strong pain Than overcloud Thy soul, So clear in agony, Or lose one glimpse of heaven before the time. Renew'd in every pulse That on the tedious cross Told the long hours of death, as, one by one, And bid her freely welcome, unbeguiled For when was joy so dear As the deep calm that breathed' Father forgive,' Or, 'Be with me in Paradise to-day?' And though the strife be sore, Yet in his parting breath Love masters agony; the soul that seem'd Forsaken, feels her present God again, And in her Father's arms Contented dies away. |