Where thine own hand the crushing weight has laid.
When, sick at heart, and sad, and desolate,
The widow comes to weep her mournful fate,
And comes to THEE—thy Spirit, holy Dove!
Flies swiftly from the Heaven of purest love;
And O, blest Comforter! thy wings are spread,
To shield from every storm her fainting head;
And, brooding o’er the darkness of her soul,
Where, swelling high, the waves of anguish roll,
Thy sov’reign power from its chaos brings