William Caldwell Roscoe (1823–1859)

SAD soul, whom God, resuming what He gave,

Medicines with bitter anguish of the tomb,

Cease to oppress the portals of the grave,

And strain thy aching sight across the gloom.

The surged Atlantic’s winter-beaten wave

Shall sooner pierce the purpose of the wind

Than thy storm-tossed and heavy-swelling mind

Grasp the full import of His means to save.

Through the dark night lie still; God’s faithful grace

Lies hid, like morning, underneath the sea.

Let thy slow hours roll, like these weary stars,

Down to the level ocean patiently;

Till His loved hand shall touch the Eastern bars,

And His full glory shine upon thy face.