VII.
MARGARET'S PRAYER.
O thou well-tried in grief,
Grant to thy child relief,
And view with mercy this unhappy one!
The sword within thy heart,
Speechless with bitter smart,
Thou lookest up toward thy dying Son.
Thou lookest to God on high,
And breathest many a sigh
O'er His and thy distress, thou holy One!
Who e'er can know
The depth of woe
Piercing my very bone?
The sorrows that my bosom fill,
Its trembhngs, its aye-yearning will
Are known to thee, to thee alone.
Wherever I may go,
With woe, with woe, with woe,
My bosom sad is aching!
I scarce alone can creep,
I weep, I weep, I weep,
My very heart is breaking.
The flowers at my window
My falling tears bedewed,
When I, at dawn of morning,
For thee these flow'rets strewed.
