What souls possess themselves so pure,
Or is there blessedness like theirs?
—Alfred Tennyson.
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PRAYER ITS OWN ANSWER
"Allah, Allah!" cried the sick man, racked with pain the long night through;
Till with prayer his heart was tender, till his lips like honey grew.
But at morning came the Tempter; said, "Call louder, child of pain!
See if Allah ever hear, or answer 'Here am I' again."
Like a stab the cruel cavil through his brain and pulses went;