We find the wormwood, and rebel and shrink,
Be sure a wiser hand than yours or mine
Poured out the potion for our lips to drink;
And if some one we love is lying low,
Where human kisses can not reach the face,
O do not blame the loving Father so,
But wear your sorrow with obedient grace,
And you will shortly know that lengthened breath
Is not the sweetest gift God gives his friend;
And that sometimes the sable pall of death