Is thy sorrow very great ?

Wait, were mortal words to thee!

 Wait on God, poor mourner, wait;


Thy sole comforter is He.


'Tis the Maker of the heart,

'Tis the sender of the grief,

Can alone the balm impart

That shall yield thee sweet relief.


Tell to man thy bitter woes ;

Thence may spring yet worse to beat;

Tell them unto God, who knows;

It may prove prevailing prayer.


Weak to make the body whole

Of sore hurt is human skill;

But to heal the stricken soul,

It for this is weaker still.


While, so great is God above,

That, to heal this truth revealed,

And to trust its words of love

This alone is to be healed.



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