Though the stream of being floweth
Calmly to the sea of peace,
Though the weary pilgrim goeth
To his home of sleep and ease-
None, but he who suffers, knoweth
All a spirit's bitterness.
Thoughts there are with misery in them,
Sharper than the wintry wind:
Wounds there are, though none have seen them,
Rankling in the inner mind-
Woes, with not a joy between them,
Dark and vague and undefined.
Is there for a spirit broken,
Is there balm of Gilead here?
Yes! the Lord-the Lord hath spoken,
Draw, ye sons of suffering, near
Christ, the Word-His cross the token-
See the cross-and banish fear.