O Thou who dri­est the mourn­er’s tear,
How dark this world would be,
If, when de­ceived and wound­ed here,
We could not fly to Thee!

The friends who in our sun­shine live,
When win­ter comes are flown;
And he who has but tears to give,
Must weep those tears alone.

But Thou wilt heal that brok­en heart,
Which, like the plants that throw
Their frag­rance from the wound­ed part,
Breathes sweet­ness out of woe.

When joy no long­er soothes or cheers,
And e’en the hope that threw
A mo­ment’s spar­kle o’er our tears
Is dimmed and van­ished, too—

O who could bear life’s stor­my doom,
Did not Thy wing of love
Come bright­ly waft­ing through the gloom
Our peace-branch from above?

Then sor­row, touched by Thee, grows bright,
With more than rap­ture’s ray;
As dark­ness shows us worlds of light
We ne­ver saw by day.