When my gloomy hour comes on me, And I shun the face of man,Finding bitterness in all things, As vex'd spirits only can:
When of all the world I'm weary, Then some gentle woman's face,Coming like a blessed vision, Reconciles me to our race.
All the children of affliction, All the weary and oppress'd,Flee to thee, beloved woman, Finding shelter in thy breast.
While we follow mad ambition, Thine is far the nobler part;Nursing flowers of sweet affection In the valleys of the heart.
Man can look and laugh at danger, Mighty with the sword is he;But he cannot love, and suffer, Pity, and forgive, like thee.
Blessed ministers of mercy! Hov'ring round the dying bed,Come to cheer the broken-hearted, To support the drooping head.
Oh, my blessings be upon you, For, beneath yon weary sky,Ye are ever bringing comfort Unto sinners such as I.
When the saints have but upbraidings For the guilty, erring man,Ye speak words of hope and mercy, As dear woman only can.
When my weary journey's ending; When my troubl'd spirit flies,May a woman smooth my pillow, May a woman close my eyes.
