A Hymn In Sickness Poem by Caroline Fry

THROUGH the long night of watchfulness and pain,
Where shall the worn and wearied spirit rest?
Who listens in the midnight's lonely hour
To the low hearings of the aching breast?

Still, silent, dark,in vain the ear would catch
A note of comfort whispered on the air,
Helpless, alone,the eye looks out in vain
For one to wipe the solitary tear.

'Tis then, O Lord, the spirit turns to thee,
Its ever-present, ever-mindful Friend,
Nearest, when all beside thee is afar,
And kindest where all other comforts end.

Then what delight to know that thou art there,
Tending in love the lonely sufferer's bed,
In words of peace, still felt though all unheard,
Shedding soft balm upon the restless head.

Lulling th' impatient spirit to repose
With holy confidence that all is good,
So gently chastening, even nature's self
Would not escape the lesson if she could.

Yes, gracious Lord! not all the flowers that deck
The bosom of the healthy and the gay ,
Not all the mirth and carelessness that gild
The sunshine moments of life's golden day,

Can bear so rich a harvest to the soul
Of holy peace and chaste tranquillity,
As does the pain, that, weaning us from earth,
Persuades the heart to yield itself to thee.

My spirit, grateful even for the ill,
Asks of thy love this only blessing more,
Never to lose, in joy and health's return,
The thought of sickness' solitary hour.