Wouldst thou sleep amidst the snow?

Chafe that frozen form beside thee,

And together both shall glow.

Art thou stricken in life's battle?

Many wounded round thee moan:

Lavish on their wounds thy balsam,

And that balm shall heal thine own.

Is thy heart a well left empty?

None but God the void can fill.

Nothing but the ceaseless Fountain