‘My God, O why hast thou forsaken me?’
And so I think, at times, these doubts of ours
May only rise like minor preludes here,
Ere that triumphant cadence, ‘It is finished.’
But come, Pauline,” he added then with warmth,
“And promise me that you will yield them up,
These dark, sad thoughts. Why, they could make of me
An infidel outright! Could faith destroy
Our love, what good then might it not destroy?”
A wonder is it, that to moods like this