That passeth understanding. Every word
Was music to her ear, and healing balm
To her poor bleeding heart. The drowning man
Will grasp for life at every floating straw;
And so the mourner, of all joy bereft,
Will catch at every hope the gospel gives.
The reader closed the book, and sat him down;
And then the mourner call’d him to her side
With silent beckon. In her hand she held
A little volume—’twas the same sweet book