And ah! the widow's wails, the orphan's cries,
Are morning hymn and vesper chant to me;
And groans of men and sounds of women's sighs
Commingle, Father, with my prayer to Thee.
Beneath my feet ten thousand children dead --
Oh! how I loved each known and nameless one!
Above their dust I bow my crownless head
And murmur: Father, still Thy will be done.
Ah! Father, Thou didst deck my own loved land
With all bright charms, and beautiful and fair;
But foeman came, and with a ruthless hand,
Spread ruin, wreck, and desolation there.
Girdled with gloom, of all my brightness shorn,
And garmented with grief, I kiss Thy rod,
And turn my face, with tears all wet and worn,
To catch one smile of pity from my God.
Around me blight, where all before was bloom,
And so much lost, alas! and nothing won
Save this -- that I can lean on wreck and tomb
And weep, and weeping, pray Thy will be done.
And oh! 'tis hard to say, but said, 'tis sweet;
The words are bitter, but they hold a balm --
A balm that heals the wounds of my defeat,
And lulls my sorrow into holy calm.
It is the prayer of prayers, and how it brings,
When heard in heaven, peace and hope to me!
When Jesus prayed it did not angels' wings
Gleam 'mid the darkness of Gethsemane?
My children, Father, Thy forgiveness need;
Alas! their hearts have only place for tears!
Forgive them, Father, ev'ry wrongful deed,
And every sin of those four bloody years;
And give them strength to bear their boundless loss,
And from their hearts take every thought of hate;
And while they climb their Calvary with their cross,
Oh! help them, Father, to endure its weight.
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