Man Was Not Made to Mourn

The poet sings a mourn­ful song

Whose me­lan­cho­ly part

Has doubt­less found an ec­ho strong

In ma­ny a hu­man heart;

But in the great Eter­nal Mind

Where first a soul was born

No such stern fi­at do I find

As Man was made to mourn.

When fresh from the Cre­at­ive Hand

He stood a lord­ly king

To have and hold su­preme com­mand

O’er ev­ery liv­ing thing.

And Heav’n had give­n of its best

An Ed­en to adorn

Man had not ev­en there been blest

Had he been made to mourn.

God looked up­on the fin­ished earth:

Behold

’tis good

He said;

Nor thorn nor this­tle yet had birth

Nor hu­man tear been shed.

’Twas meant that man should live

not die

And he had nev­er worn

The stamp of im­mor­tal­ity

Had he been made to mourn.

’Twas not un­til a craf­ty foe

With rank and poi­son­ous breath

Had en­tered para­dise below

And sown the seeds of death;

’Twas not till man had dis­ob­eyed

And sin its fruit had borne.

That para­dise be­gan to fade

And man be­gan to mourn.

Alas! though Ad­am sinned and died

The seed which then took root

Has grown and scat­tered far and wide

And borne its bit­ter fruit;

E’er since

life’s flow­ers of sweet­est bloom

Have grown be­side the thorn

And from the cra­dle to the tomb

Man ceas­es not to mourn.

Through Ed­en’s long con­tin­ued gloom

This star of hope has gleamed:

When Shi­loh shall again have come

And para­dise re­deemed

When earth

as Heav’n

shall do His will

Then Sa­tan shall be shorn

Of all his po­ten­cy for ill

And man shall cease to mourn.

Till then

we’ll wait

en­dure and toil

In sun­shine or in show­ers

Content to know that when we call

The pro­mised help is ours;

Some day

be­yond this low­er land

When earth­ly ties are torn

We’ll see and bet­ter un­der­stand—

Man was not made to mourn.