“HOW CAN THEY BEAR IT UP IN HEAVEN?”
HOW can they bear it up in heaven,
They who so loved, and love us yet,
If they can see us still, and know
The heavy hours that come and go,
The fears that sting, the cares that fret,
The hopes belied, the helps ungiven?
Can they sit watching us all day,
Measure our tears, and count our sighs,
And mark each throb and stab of pain,
The ungranted wish, the longing vain,
And still smile on with happy eyes,
Content on golden harps to play?
Ah no! we will not do them wrong!
When mothers hear their babies cry
For broken toy or trivial woe,
They smile, for all their love,—they know
Laughter shall follow presently,
And sighing turn to merry song.
They are not cruel, that they smile;
Their eyes, grown old, can farther see,
Weighing the large thing and the less
With wise, experienced tenderness,—
The moment’s grief with joy to be
In such a little, little while.
Just so the angels, starry-eyed,
With vision cleared and made all-wise,
Look past the storm-rack and the rain
And shifting mists of mortal pain
To where the steadfast sunshine lies,
And everlasting summer-tide.
They see, beyond the pang, the strife,
(To us how long, to them how brief!)
The compensation and the balm,
The victor’s wreath, the conqueror’s palm—
They see the healing laid to grief,
They see unfold the perfect life.
For all our blind, impatient pain,
Our desolate and sore estate,
They see the door that open is
Of Heaven’s abundant treasuries,
The comforts and the cures that wait
The bow of promise in the rain.
And even as they watch, they smile,
With eyes of love, as mothers may,
Nor grieve too much although we cry,
Because joy cometh presently,
And sunshine, and the fair new day,
When we have wept a little while.