The Grief of Pleasures

Through mi­ry paths I la­bored on;

Dark fell the mist

I could not see;

But when my feet were al­most gone

A voice said—Turn

and look on Me.

Who com’st Thou

taunt­ed like a thief

By hard men

joy­ous in Thy fall?

Who art Thou

yearn­ing pale with grief

To some friend in the judg­ment hall?

O glance too kind for brok­en vow

For crime sinned oft­en and afresh!

O thorns

that wring the pur­est brow

Made ev­er yet from hu­man flesh!

O print­ed hands

O print­ed feet

O side

dug to the quick with steel!

I mar­vel

but no an­swer­ing heat

Strikes through my breast

to make it feel.

Ah Lord! but if Thy grace im­part

True sor­row for my in­ward stain

That look will pierce me to the heart

That crown will tear me to the brain.

Those marks up­on Thy feet and hands

That fur­row in Thy sin­less side

Will sear me as with ir­on brands

While I with Thee hang cru­ci­fied.

Nay

but the world—too far

too much

She lures me with her pow­er to please.

How can I bear Thy heal­ing touch

To rob me of my sweet dis­ease?

For e’en again that path of mire

That dim place

where the mist came down

Seems

for its joy

worth end­less fire

Such dreams my soul in poi­son drown.

I bathe me in a false de­light

Chew dust for bread: yet

Lord

I pray

Come

for with­out Thee day is night

Come now

for with Thee night is day.

Yea

by Thy love

Thy toil to save

Thy pray­er

Thy groans

Thy bloody sweat

Thy death

Thy ris­ing from the grave

Look down from Heav’n

and hear me yet.