Classic Poem

Love to the tender; peace to those who mourn;
Hope to the hopeless, hope that does not fail,
Whose symbol is the anchor, not the sail;
Glory that spreads to heaven's remotest bourn,
And to its centre doth again return
Like music; health revisiting the frail;
Freedom to those who pine in dungeons pale;
Sorrows which God hath willed and Christ hath worn!
Omnipotence to be the poor man's shield;
Light, uncreated light, to cheer the blind;
Infinite mercy sent to heal and bind
All wounds encountered in life's well-fought field;
These are God's gifts to man — nor these alone:
Himself He gives to all who make those gifts their own.