630. C. M. Anonymous. |Blessed are they that mourn.|

1 In trouble and in grief, O God,
Thy smile hath cheered my way;
And joy hath budded from each thorn
That round my footsteps lay.

2 The hours of pain have yielded good,
Which prosperous days refused;
As herbs, though scentless when entire,
Spread fragrance when they're bruised.

3 The oak strikes deeper as its boughs
By furious blasts are driven;
So life's vicissitudes the more
Have fixed my heart in heaven.

4 All-gracious Lord! whate'er my lot
In other times may be,
I'll welcome still the heaviest grief,
That brings me near to thee.