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"OUT OF THE DEPTHS"

2 Cor. iv. 17.

          "O Father! not my will, but Thine be done!"
               Thus with my lips I say;
          Yet lags the heart, the while the lips would run--
               My heart, it sayeth "Nay."
          
          "Be comforted, O child of My delight,
               Though yet thy heart complain;
          For I would have thee suffer when I smite,
               Or pain would not be [g]ain.
          
          "Were it a chastening if it were not grief?
               Yet for a moment tears--
          Then glows the spring where fell the yellow leaf,
               Of Heaven's eternal years.
          
          "For sorrow is the sorrow of an hour,
               And is eternal love;
          The dusky bud enfolds the glorious flower
               For God's delight above."
          
          O Lord, whose lips are lilies, sweet to me
               As psaltery and as psalm,
          Thy blessed words of glory that shall be,
               Of song, and crown, and palm.
          
          Yet sweeter even now to see Thy Face,
               To find Thee now my rest--
          My sorrow comforted in Thine embrace,
               And soothed upon Thy breast.
          
          Lord, there to weep is better than the joy
               Of all the sons of men;
          For there I know the love without alloy,
               I cannot lose again.
          
          "O child, My heart's beloved, sweet to me,
               As psaltery and as psalm,
          The voice of him who on the midnight sea
               Can praise through storm and calm.
          
          "And who is he who seeks the haven fair,
               The everlasting Home?
          The lonely and the outcast enter there--
               The glad heart will not come.
          
          "To Me the weary cometh when the way
               Is steep and long and lone--
          To Me the friendless, when the golden day
               Behind the hills is gone."
          
           . . . . . .
          
          Then spake my heart, "For him who comes are pain
               And bitter tears and scars;
          The briars of the wilderness remain
               Griefs countless as the stars.
          
          "As he who from the poor his garment takes
               When drives the storm and sleet,
          Is he who singeth to the heart that breaks
               How then may grief be sweet?"
          
          And lo! in vision fair did I behold
               One who a psaltery strung--
          Two threads he stretched above the strings of gold,
               Across, and all along.
          
          Then with the threads thus crosswise o'er the strings,
               Gave he the harp to me--
          Thus know I how the broken-hearted sings,
               O Lamb of God, to Thee.

H. Suso.


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