Like One who passed through that tear-blotted season
In sad Gethsemane!

Through all the weary, wearing hour of sorrow,
What word that thou hast said
Would make me strong to wait for some to-morrow
When I should find my dead?
When I am weak, and desolate, and lonely -
And prone to follow wrong?
Not thou, O Science--Christ, my Saviour, only
Can make me strong.

Thou art so cold, so lofty, and so distant,
Though great my need might be,
No prayer, however constant and persistent,
Could bring thee down to me.
Christ stands so near, to help me through each hour,
To guide me day by day
O Science, sweeping all before thy power -
Leave Christ, I pray!



RESPITE



The mighty conflict, which we call existence,
Doth wear upon the body and the soul,
Our vital forces wasted in resistance,