One mystery there is, and one alone, Baffles the human spirit with despair, Filches the very sunlight from the air, And wrenches every breath into a groan. Oh, it is when our loved, our very own, The good, -- so good! the fair, -- so dearly fair! Are doomed some awful agony to bear, And all their sweet, pure life becomes a moan. Send us, O God! amid our aching tears The memory of Thine accepted fate, -- Thy Son, Thy best beloved, torn with spears Of all our mortal woes disconsolate; So that our mystery of pain appears A mystery of love and not of hate. |