GAIN.
HOW shall we count the gain from what we miss?
The wasted blooms where hangs the perfect rose?
The blighted buds of bush and bough that bear
The luscious fruit? Whose vision can disclose,
The dead, whose dying makes a kingdom strong?
Weak hearts that mourn above an old-time loss
Gain not the glory of the sacrifice.
They know the pain, the jeers, the hyssop-sponge
But not the final victory of the Cross.
The wasted blooms where hangs the perfect rose?
The blighted buds of bush and bough that bear
The luscious fruit? Whose vision can disclose,
The dead, whose dying makes a kingdom strong?
Weak hearts that mourn above an old-time loss
Gain not the glory of the sacrifice.
They know the pain, the jeers, the hyssop-sponge
But not the final victory of the Cross.