Classic Poem

I ask not, though my fiery tears be sore,
That skies should pity or that men should mourn,
Nay, rather teach me with what sunny scorn
The great earth laughs and labours evermore.

Thank God the stars are set beyond my power
If I must travail in a night of wrath
Thank God my tears will never vex a moth
Nor any curse of mine cut down a flower.

Men say the sun was darkened: yet I had
Thought it beat brightly, even on Calvary
And he, that hung upon the torturing tree
Heard all the crickets singing and was glad.