“Blessed are They”

Rossiter Worthington Raymond (1840–1918)

TO us across the ages borne,

Comes the deep word the Master said:

“Blessèd are they that mourn;

They shall be comforted!”

Strange mystery! It is better then

To weep and yearn and vainly call,

Till peace is won from pain,

Than not to grieve at all!

Yea, truly, though joy’s note be sweet,

Life does not thrill to joy alone.

The harp is incomplete

That has no deeper tone.

Unclouded sunshine overmuch

Falls vainly on the barren plain;

But fruitful is the touch

Of sunshine after rain!

Who only scans the heavens by day

Their story but half reads, and mars;

Let him learn how to say,

“The night is full of stars!”

We seek to know Thee more and more,

Dear Lord, and count our sorrows blest,

Since sorrow is the door

Whereby Thou enterest.

Nor can our hearts so closely come

To Thine in any other place,

As where, with anguish dumb,

We faint in Thine embrace.