BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN.
Oh! deem not that earth’s crowning bliss
Is found in joy alone;
For sorrow, bitter though it be,
Hath blessings all its own:
From lips divine, like healing balm
To hearts oppressed and torn,
This heavenly consolation fell—
“Blessed are they who mourn.” As blossoms smitten by the rain,
Their sweetest odors yield—
As where the plowshare deepest strikes,
Rich harvests crown the field;
So, to the hopes by sorrow crushed,
A nobler faith succeeds;
And life, by trials furrowed, bears
The fruit of loving deeds. Who never mourned, hath never known
What treasures grief reveals—
The sympathies that humanize—
The tenderness that heals—
The power to look within the veil
And learn the heavenly lore—
The key-word to life’s mysteries,
So dark to us before. How rich and sweet and full of strength
Our human spirits are,
Baptized into the sanctities
Of suffering and of prayer!
Supernal wisdom, love divine,
Breathed through the lips which said,
*“Oh! blessèd are the souls that mourn—
They shall be comforted!”*