And even saints of holy fame, Whose souls by faith have overcome, Who won amid the cruel flame The molten crown of martyrdom, Bore not without complaint alway The petty pains of every day.
Ah, more than martyr's aureole, And more than hero's heart of fire, We need the humble strength of soul Which daily toils and ills require; Sweet Patience! grant us, if you may, An added grace for every day.
What shall thine "afterward" be, O Lord, For this dark and suffering night? Father, _what_ shall thine "afterward" be? Hast thou a morning of joy for me, And a new and joyous light?
What shall thine "afterward" be, O Lord, For the moan that I cannot stay? Shall it issue in some new song of praise, Sweeter than sorrowless heart could raise, When the night hath passed away?
What shall thine "afterward" be, O Lord, For this helplessness of pain? A clearer view of my home above, Of my Father's strength and my Father's love-- Shall _this_ be my lasting gain?
What shall thine "afterward" be, O Lord? How long must thy child endure? Thou knowest! 'Tis well that I know it not! Thine "afterward" cometh--I cannot tell what, But I know that thy word is sure.
What shall thine "afterward" be, O Lord, I wonder--and wait to see (While to thy chastening hand I bow) What "peaceable fruit" may be ripening now-- Ripening fast for me!
Great truths are dearly bought. The common truth, Such as men give and take from day to day, Comes in the common walk of easy life, Blown by the careless wind across our way.
Great truths are greatly won, not found by chance, Nor wafted on the breath of summer dream; But grasped in the great struggle of the soul Hard buffeting with adverse wind and stream.
But in the day of conflict, fear and grief, When the strong hand of God, put forth in might, Plows up the subsoil of the stagnant heart And brings the imprisoned truth-seed to the light,
Wrung from the troubled spirit in hard hours Of weakness, solitude, perchance of pain, Truth springs like harvest from the well-plowed field. And the soul feels it has not wept in vain.
Though trouble-tossed and torture-torn The kingliest kings are crowned with thorn.
Heavier the cross the stronger faith: The loaded palm strikes deeper root; The vine-juice sweetly issueth When men have pressed the clustered fruit; And courage grows where dangers come Like pearls beneath the salt sea foam.