There is no sor­row, Lord, too light
To bring in pray­er to Thee;
There is no anx­ious care too slight
To wake Thy sym­pa­thy.

Thou, who hast trod the thor­ny road,
Wilt share each small dis­tress;
The love, which bore the great­er load,
Will not re­fuse the less.

There is no sec­ret sigh we breathe,
But meets Thine ear di­vine;
And ev­ery cross grows light be­neath
The sha­dow, Lord, of Thine.

Life’s ills with­out, sin’s strife with­in,
The heart would ov­er­flow,
But for that love which died for sin,
That love which wept with woe.