A Christmas Faggot/The Physician
THE PHYSICIAN.
Is life sad for lost love's sake,
Falls a blight upon thy bliss,
Smiles no more their sunshine make,
Lips estranged withhold their kiss?
For thy consolation take
Some such song as this:—
Shine on us, O Morning Star!
Help our weeping eyes to see;
Never may we deem things are
What to us they seem to be;
Rise, Thou Dayspring, and afar
Bid the shadows flee!
Jesu, Thou art swift to bless,
Strong to comfort, skilled to heal;
Failure is with Thee success,
Woe the forerunner of weal;
Every stroke is a caress,
Every crust a meal.
Master, Thou canst raise the dead
From the grave, the bed, the bier,[1]
Souls astray, forlorn, misled,
Buffeted by doubt and fear,
Cannot but be comforted
When Thou drawest near.
Sweeter than the Sunday-bells
Banishing all week-day cares,
Thine the gracious voice that tells
What a Father's love prepares.
Leading to salvation's wells
Up God's altar-stairs.
Lord, Thou art the Master-singer,
And Thy song is a recall;
Many on life's pathway linger,
Many by life's wayside fall,
But Thy Heart, the comfort-bringer,
Is a Home for all!
Tyrol : 1882.