Thou didst it. O, our Father, God,
Then let us humbly kiss the rod.
Though from our eyes the tear-drop starts,
When those who twine around our hearts
Are suffering with exquisite pain,
Yet, we may weep, and not complain.
Lord, thou didst weep, and so may we,
And bow submissive still to Thee;
Grant us thy grace in sorrow's hour,
To flee for refuge to thy power.




TO A SISTER WHILE DANGEROUSLY ILL.

O Sister! Sister! can it be
That thou must droop, and die?
Still blending on thy fair young cheek,
The rose and lily vie.

But burning fever is the root
From whence those roses spring;
While pain and suffering, on thy brow,
Those snowy lilies fling.




THE INVALID'S DREAM