Volume 6 — Joy In Grief. From The French Of Marie Jenna.

"Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted."

Friend! in vain thy bosom hides the sharp and cruel sword that wounds it. I have understood thy silence, and my prayer hath still been for thee. Cast away the foolish pride that shuts thy heart against my friendship; Come, and weep before me. Well I know that there are days of heavy grief and lonely suffering, When the soul doth find in solitude a grim and bitter pleasure; And the thoughtless world beholds its shrouded majesty pass by it Pale, and wrapped in silence. Then the friendly hand, uncertain, stops and hesitates before it, Fearing lest too rudely it may draw aside the veil of mourning: There are griefs so great and sacred that all human thought and language Dies upon the threshold. Now, however, days are past; and it is time I came and sought thee. Oh! permit a friend to share the heavy burden of thy sorrow. Put thy hand in mine, thy weary head upon my heart, and rest thee: I have suffered also. I will not approach thee with those vain and heartless words of fashion, Words which grief receives and spurns as mocking echoes of its wailing; No, I have a word to whisper that will bring a holy comfort: 'Tis a heavenly secret. If I might, as from an urn, before thy feet pour out my treasures, Hope and peace would fill thy soul now groping in despairing darkness. Light would shine upon thy pathway; sweet repose would mark thy slumbers, Dreams of happy moments. There are pure and lofty summits where the soul of man reposes. 'Tis the sword which cleaves our hearts asunder opens up the pathway. Friend of mine, believe me that the loss of all things counts as nothing If those heights be mastered. Silly bees, we flit from flower to flower in this world's pleasure-garden; Drinking in their rich perfumes and tasting of their honeyed sweetness. Resting there, and living on its passing charms as if its beauty Were enough for ever. There we dream away our life, and precious moments pass unheeded; Placing all our joys in pleasures fleeting as the summer sunshine, Joys that vanish when the evening casts its shadows o'er the garden Gone before the moonlight. 'Tis when robbed of human love; when seated desolate and lonely On the wide and arid desert, with no kindly eye to greet us; When the howling tempest rages, and the frightful darkness thickens, Comfort has a meaning. Then the brow defeat has humbled, and the heart grown sick with sorrow, Find an arm and hand divine to lean upon and bear its burden: And the spirit wrung with anguish, crushed by cruel disappointment, Sings a hymn unspoken. When before the lost one's footsteps opens an abyss of horror, Then appears a bridge of safety stretching o'er the gulf's dark passage: There, where danger threatens most, and death menaces, God is standing Open-armed to meet him. When the fitful joys of human passion are consumed within us, Other joys begin their reign of which the soul as yet knew nothing. Ah! what matter, when a brilliant star appears in heaven above us, If the lamp burn dimly? O thou mystery of suffering, deep abyss for human wonder! Since that day when on a shameful cross love gained its greatest triumph, We begin to sound thy awful depths, and catch at least faint glimpses Of thy hidden meaning! Come, for there the lesson may be learned which only He, the Master, teaches From his throne of truth and wisdom. At the feet of Jesus seated, Words will fall upon our ears that human lips have never spoken Words of heaven's language. Sword of sorrow, minister of peace, I bless thee for thy wounding! Pleasing is the pain of sacrifice, and sweet the tears of martyrs Shed for too much joy when from the eyes all earthly sights are fading In the light of heaven. Of those melodies divine, those flames of love and joy celestial, Of those floods of rapture springing from the lonely plains of sorrow, Ye, poor, thoughtless souls, know nothing, nor have ever dreamed their presence, Ye who ne'er have suffered. Man of sorrows! he who never trod the road of desolation, He who hath not borne a cross and followed thee to crucifixion, He who hath not passed through death unto the day of resurrection— He hath never known thee. Blessed are the mourners! From the mouth of Truth these words have fallen. Blessed! Yes, it must be true indeed, my God, when thou hast spoken. Welcome, then, be suffering, welcome! Happy they above all measure Who in thee find comfort!