Dear and blessed dead ones, can you look and listen
To the sighing and the moaning down here below?
Does it make a discord in the hymns of Heaven,—
The discord that jangles in the life you used to know?

When we pray our prayers to the great God above you,
Does the echo of our praying ever glance aside your way?
Do you know the thing we ask for, and wish that you could give it,
You, whose hearts ached with wishing in your own little day?

Are your ears deaf with praises, you blessed dead of Heaven,
And your eyes blind with, glory, that you cannot see our pain?
If you saw, if you heard, you would weep among the angels,
And the praises and the glory would be for you in vain.

Yet He listens to our praying, the great God of pity,
As He fills with pain the measure of our Life's little day,—
Could He bear to sit and shine there, on His white throne in Heaven,
But that He sees the end, while we only see the way?
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