Mourner, that dost deserve thy mournfulness,
Call thyself punished, call the earth thy hell;
Say, 'God is angry, and I earned it well-
I would not have him smile on wickedness:'
Say this, and straightway all thy grief grows less:-
'God rules at least, I find as prophets tell,
And proves it in this prison!'-then thy cell
Smiles with an unsuspected loveliness.
-'A prison-and yet from door and window-bar
I catch a thousand breaths of his sweet air!
Even to me his days and nights are fair!
He shows me many a flower and many a star!
And though I mourn and he is very far,
He does not kill the hope that reaches there!'
George MacDonald's Other Poems
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