CXIV THE WREATH

Since I in storms used most to be,

And seldom yielded flowers,

How shall I get a wreath for Thee

From those rude, barren hours?

The softer dressings of the Spring,

Or Summer's later store,

I will not for Thy temples bring,

Which thorns, not roses, wore.

But a twined wreath of grief and praise,

Praise soil'd with tears, and tears again

Shining with joy, like dewy days,

This day I bring for all Thy pain;

Thy causeless pain! and, sad as death,

Which sadness breeds in the most vain,

-- O not in vain -- now beg Thy breath,

Thy quickening breath, which gladly bears

Through saddest clouds to that glad place,

Where cloudless quires sing without tears,

Sing Thy just praise, and see Thy face.