Ο thou! who never takest from thy beloved,
Except to give them more,
When most is gone from our sweet earthly good,
Then most thou hast in store.
We are too blind with tears, dear Lord, to count
Thy garnered treasure true;
Our weary hearts are all too weak to mount
To such a heavenly view.
Our eyes rest on the empty places here —
We stand by open tombs —
And gathering round our footsteps year by year,
Are ever deepening glooms.
But thou canst raise the weariest eye to thee —
Ease the most troubled heart —
Teach the most faithless and perverse to see,
By thy divinest art.
How true thy reckoning is—“a little while!,”
“These light afflictions” borne —
And then—the hidden rapture of thy smile
In heaven’s celestial morn!
The open treasure—house, our own domain,
Rich in all goodly store;
All sad hours turned to joy—all loss to gain,
And rest for evermore.
No aching heart nor empty arms again,
For through these passing hours,
Safe in thy home and free from every stain
Are thy beloved, and ours.
Ε. A. K.