We labour to extract, but labour all in vain.
Our skill avails not; ages come and go,
Yet bring with them no respite and no cure;
The hidden wound, the sigh of pent-up woe,
The sting we smother, but must still endure,
The worthless remedies which no relief procure,—
All these cry out for something more divine,
Which the worst woes of earth may not withstand;
Medicine that cannot fail—the oil and wine,
The balm and myrrh, growth of no earthly land,