His glory can irradiate the gloom
Of every heart, whose hopes are in the tomb!
There is a power can pierce the darksome cloud
Which overhangs your soul with sable shroud.
O, when the soul is lifted up to Heaven
By the meek penitent, who, sorrow-driven,
Flies to her Savior God, and stretches high
Her supplicating hands in agony,
Bearing aloft to Heaven her bleeding heart,
In silent eloquence to plead her part;