“’Tis but the graver countenance of love.”
Though clouds and darkness round about him roll,
In righteousness and truth He sits enthroned;
And precious in His sight the immortal soul,
For whose deep stain of guilt His love atoned.
He makes our dearest earthly comforts flee,
Or, e’en when clustering round us, bids them pall,
That thus the “altogether lovely,”—He,—
“Chief of ten thousand,” may be all in all.
And hast thou not some blissful moments known,