Of an acuter agony than death;
One fearful shiver at the searching thrill,
And she had won—aye, with her glorious boy
Upon her very breast—the victory!
Oh! let the erring oftener be forgiven,
That, in the shadowy twilight of the mind,
They stray a little from the perfect way!
If there is evidence in silent leaves,
And the still waters, of a present God,
And all who hear not messages of grace,