THOUGH in the wine-press of thy wrath divine,
My crushed hopes droop, like crude and worthless must,
That love and mercy, Father! still are thine,
With reverent soul, I trust!
Though all my life be shattered by thine ire,
The mystic whirlwind of thy will august,
Still, from the din, the darkness and the fire,
I lift my song of trust!
Tho' foes assail me! yea, within, without!
Harrow my heart, and hurl its joys in dust,
No forceful fear, nor fraud of treacherous doubt,
Disarms my bucklered trust!
Though my lost years be wrapped in Arctic cloud,
And Grief on me hath wreaked her ruthless lust,
Still, like an angel's face above a shroud
Smiles my celestial trust!
Tho', Lord! thou wear'st a mask of hate ('twould seem),
And for a time, I think--as mortals must--
That mask shall melt, as melts a nightmare dream,
Before my Orient trust!
Yea! tho' Thou slay me, and supine, I cower,
Heart-pierced and bleeding from the fiery thrust,--
I know there bides in heaven a glorious hour,
To crown my sacred trust!
