Classic Poem

Each pang I feel is known to thee,
Dear Lord! for thou hast sent the thorn
That pierceth me;
Hast fixed it festering in this breast,
That with new anguish wakes each morn,
And finds no rest.

Though oft with burning tears, I've prayed
That thou wouldst take this grief away,
Thou hast delayed;
Yet thou hast pledged thy word to keep,
To succor in the sorrowing day
Thine own who weep.

Why tarriest thou? Long must I plead,
With hope deferred, that thou wilt send
The help I need?
Hast thou thy words of love forgot,
That, when o'erwhelmed, I lowly bend,
Thou answerest not?

Be still, my soul, and meekly bear
Thy pain, nor yield one doubt a place,
Lest dark despair
Prevail, thy steadfast trust to shake;
Though in thick shades he hides his face,
The dawn shall break!

Ah! now, at last, he speaks; — A thrill
Sweeps through my soul, and tides of love
My being fill: —
" Canst thou not bear the cross with me?
I may not yet the thorn remove
That woundeth thee; —

But thou shalt lean upon my breast,
My strength shall make thy weakness strong;
When most oppressed,
Then most my grace shalt thou partake;
And from thy burdened heart a song
Of joy shall break! "