The shock of onset and the thunder shout
That triumph over ill--
All wreak His purpose though at bitter cost
And fashion forth His plan,
While not a single sob or ache is lost
Which in His Breath began.

Each act august, which bravely in despite
Of suffering dared to be,
Is one with the grand order infinite
Which sets the kingdoms free.
The pleading wound, the piteous eye that opes
Again to nought but pangs,
Are jewels and sweet pledges of those hopes
On which His empire hangs.
But if we travail in the furnace hot
And feel its blasting ire,
He learns with us the anguish of our lot
And walketh in the fire.

He wills no waste, no burden is too much
In the most bitter strife;
Beneath the direst buffet is His touch,
Who holds the pruning knife.
We are redeemed through sorrow, and the thorn
That pierces is His kiss,
As through the grave of grief we are re-born
And out of the abyss.
The blood of nations is the precious seed
Wherewith He plants our gates