For eighteen years, O patient soul,
Thine eyes have sought thy grave;
Thou seest not thy other goal,
Nor who is nigh to save.
Thou nearest gentle words that wake
Thy long-forgotten strength;
Thou feelest tender hands that break
The iron bonds at length.
Thou knowest life rush swift along
Thy form bent sadly low;
And up, amidst the wondering throng
Thou risest firm and slow,
And seëst him. Erect once more
In human right divine,
Joyous thou bendest yet before
The form that lifted thine.
O Saviour, Thou, long ages gone,
Didst lift her joyous head:
Now, many hearts are moaning on,
And bending towards the dead.
They see not, know not Thou art nigh:
One day thy word will come;
Will lift the forward-beaming eye,
And strike the sorrow dumb.
Thy hand wipes off the stains of time
Upon the withered face;
Thy old men rise in manhood's prime
Of dignity and grace.
Thy women dawn like summer days
Old winters from among;
Their eyes are filled with youthful rays,
The voice revives in song.
All ills of life will melt away
Like cureless dreams of woe,
When with the dawning of the day
Themselves the sad dreams go.
O Lord, Thou art my saviour too:
I know not what my cure;
But all my best, Thou, Lord, wilt do;
And hoping I endure.
