"He healeth the broken in heart and bindeth up their wounds,"

    —Psalm. cxlvii. 3.

Oh Thou who dry'st the mourner's tear,

  How dark this world would be,

If, when deceived and wounded here,

  We could not fly to Thee.

The friends who in our sunshine live,

  When winter comes, are flown;

And he who has but tears to give,

  Must weep those tears alone.

But Thou wilt heal that broken heart,

  Which, like the plants that throw

Their fragrance from the wounded part,

  Breathes sweetness out of woe.

When joy no longer soothes or cheers,

  And even the hope that threw

A moment's sparkle o'er our tears

  Is dimmed and vanished too,

Oh, who would bear life's stormy doom,

  Did not thy Wing of Love

Come, brightly wafting thro' the gloom

  Our Peace-branch from above?

Then sorrow, touched by Thee, grows bright

  With more than rapture's ray;

As darkness shows us worlds of light

  We never saw by day!