Divine Compassion

Long since, a dream of heaven I had,

And still the vision haunts me oft;

I see the saints in white robes clad,

The martyrs with their palms aloft;

But hearing still, in middle song,

The ceaseless dissonance of wrong;

And shrinking, with hid faces, from the strain

Of sad, beseeching eyes, full of remorse and pain.

The glad song falters to a wail,

The harping sinks to low lament;

Before the still unlifted veil

I see the crownëd foreheads bent,

Making more sweet the heavenly air

With breathings of unselfish prayer;

And a Voice saith: “O Pity which is pain,

O Love that weeps, fill up my sufferings which remain!

“Shall souls redeemed by me refuse

To share my sorrow in their turn?

Or, sin-forgiven, my gift abuse

Of peace with selfish unconcern?

Has saintly ease no pitying care?

Has faith no work, and love no prayer?

While sin remains, and souls in darkness dwell,

Can heaven itself be heaven, and look unmoved on hell?”

Then through the Gates of Pain, I dream,

A wind of heaven blows coolly in;

Fainter the awful discords seem,

The smoke of torment grows more thin,

Tears quench the burning soil, and thence

Spring sweet, pale flowers of penitence:

And through the dreary realm of man’s despair,

Star-crowned an angel walks, and lo! God’s hope is there!

Is it a dream? Is heaven so high

That pity cannot breathe its air?

Its happy eyes forever dry,

Its holy lips without a prayer!

My God! my God! if thither led

By Thy free grace unmerited,

No crown nor palm be mine, but let me keep

A heart that still can feel, and eyes that still can weep.