Of all that earth
Contained--of mirth,
Of loves, and fame,
And pleasures' name--
No sacrifice
To win the prize,
Which Christ secured,
When He endured
For us the load--
The wrath of God!
With many a tear,
And many a fear,
With many a sigh
And heart-wrung cry
Of timid faith,
Where intervenes
No darkening cloud
Of sin to shroud
The gazer's view.
Thus sadly flew
The merry spring;
And gaily sing
The birds their loves
In summer groves.
But not for him
Their notes they trim.
His ear is cold--
His tale is told.
Above his grave
The grass may wave--