228.  Our Consolation

1
O thou who driest the mourner’s tear,
How dark this world would be,
If, when deceived and wounded here,
We could not fly to thee!

2
But thou wilt heal the broken heart
Which, like the plants that throw
Their fragrance from the wounded part,
Breathes sweetness out of woe.

3
O! who could bear life’s stormy doom,
Did not thy wing of love
Come gently wafting, through the gloom,
Our peace-branch from above?

4
E’en sorrow, touched by heav’n, grows bright
With more than rapture’s ray,
As darkness shows us worlds of light
We never saw by day.