CATHEDRAL HYMN.
37
What griefs that make no sign,
That ask no aid but thine,
Father of Mercies! here before thee swell!
As to the open sky,
All their dark waters lie
To thee revealed, in each close bosom cell.
The sorrow for the dead,
Mantling its lonely head
From the world's glare, is, in thy sight, set free;
And the fond, aching love,
Thy minister, to move
All the wrung spirit, softening it for thee.
And doth not thy dread eye
Behold the agony
In that most hidden chamber of the heart,
Where darkly sits remorse,
Beside the secret source
Of fearful visions, keeping watch apart?
