His pole-star burns, though mist and cloud
May veil it with a midnight shroud,
We know thou reign’st, All-holy One, All-just!
And bless thee still with love’s own boundless trust.
We feel no more that aid is nigh,
When our faint hearts within us die.
We suffer—and we know our doom
Must be one suffering till the tomb.
Yet, by the anguish of thy Son
When his last hour came darkly on;