The Violence of Grief

O merciful Father! the blow that we feared,
Though for long it hath threatened and slowly hath n eared,
Hath come all at once, hath too suddenly come,
And laid waste the fair garden that once was our home.

We had thought to have borne it far better than this,
Nor have grudged to Thy will our poor tribute of bliss;
In our minds we had looked in the face of this woe,
And had fixed how to kneel to encounter the blow.

But it seems as if sorrow did more than make haste,
And had leaped from the clouds down upon us at last:
And the grief most surprises, looks most like a wrong,
Because we have looked for its coming so long.

Nay, we would fain believe that the blow had not come,
That it was but a dream, this dumb, desolate home,
That the eyes were not closed, could not possibly close,
In the light of whose love was our only repose.

All grief has its limits, all chastenings their pause;
Thy love and our weakness are sorrow's two laws;
No burdens of Thine are too great to be borne,
Didst Thou know how this sorrow would, leave us forlorn?

We had said we were ready, whatever should chance;
Of our hearts preparations we made a romance;
And we bade Thee sincerely to strike at Thy will;
Thou hast struck, but how far are our hearts from being still!

What a voiceless despair, what a tempest of tears,
What a perfect rebellion and clamor of fears,
What murmurs unchecked, tempers unreconciled!
All within us, but faith, is disordered and wild.

Yet see how we crouch to Thee, Lord! after all;
We wished Thee far off while the blow did not fall,
And now our sole joy is to feel Thee so near,
And we fling ourselves down on Thy lap without fear.

We fling ourselves on Thee with passionate trust;
Thou art. always most loving when forced to be just;
And our ravings and tears are no worse in Thine eyes,
Than the newly-weaned mountain lamb's pitiful cries.

Our foolish wild words are some worship to Thee,
Thou hast made us so, Lord! and wouldst have it so be;
And we know, when our hearts the most bitterly swell
Not the less was it love for being judgment as well.

Thy knowledge of us makes Thy pity more deep;
Our knowledge of Thee bids us trust while we weep:
For it is when we weep we are often most still;
They who mourn most keep often most close to Thy will..

Thou wert always our Father! Each sun that arose
Has done nothing through life but fresh mercies dis close;
But we feel, while the joy of our life is laid low,
Thou hast ne'er been so tender a Father as now.