Sorrow

IF trampled grass gives perfume ; if the bowl
Must be well broken ere the wine can flow;
From the abysses of this storm-tossed soul,
From this my destiny's last mortal blow,
From sobs, and sighs, and agonies of tears,
From tortured life, and happiness forborne,
The utter ruin of my youth's lost years,
And from the bitter present's strife forlorn,
The future's terror and the past's despair;
And from this crashed and grief- wrung heart I dare
To call on thee, O God ! Let others bring
Their love, obedience, faith, as offering :
I lay my sorrows prostrate at thy feet,
Avenging God! to Thee bruised flowers are sweet