A shadow resting in the feeble clasp
Of them that fear the bitterness of truth to grasp?
Is all that sorrow of the Son of Man
A dreary darkness shutting out the light?
Poor human pain dwarfing eternal might?
An o’ergrown bramble with its prickly span
Piercing the delicate leaves of earth-born flowers,
And blighting with harsh touch kind nature’s generous powers?
Alas! that men that Infinite Love should fear,
Should dread its glory and its shade despise,