The Calling
Lord, Thou dost know with what implacable hand
Life cut its wound across my inmost breast:
How I was lost amid the worldly band—
How I have suffered where its blade was pressed!
Lord, Thou dost know how from all healing banned,
No cure I found in all the world possest;
How I in gloom would walk, and trembling stand
Before Thy mystery with doubt confest!
Thy words came then unto mine ear—so sweet,—
Yea, sweeter far than mother's lullaby.
Unto the path, O Lord, Thou drew'st my feet;
My wounded wing against Thy breast did fly,
And there, as in predestined grief's retreat,
Within Thy heart, as in its nest did lie.
Life cut its wound across my inmost breast:
How I was lost amid the worldly band—
How I have suffered where its blade was pressed!
Lord, Thou dost know how from all healing banned,
No cure I found in all the world possest;
How I in gloom would walk, and trembling stand
Before Thy mystery with doubt confest!
Thy words came then unto mine ear—so sweet,—
Yea, sweeter far than mother's lullaby.
Unto the path, O Lord, Thou drew'st my feet;
My wounded wing against Thy breast did fly,
And there, as in predestined grief's retreat,
Within Thy heart, as in its nest did lie.
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