Yes, grieve! it can be no offence to Him
Who made us sensitive our loss to know;
The hand that takes the cup filled to the brim
May well with trembling make it overflow.
Who sends us sorrow means it should be felt;
Who gave us tears would surely have them shed;
And metal that the "furnace" doth not melt,
May yet be hardened all the more instead.
Where love abounded will the grief abound?
To check our grief is but to chide our love;
With withered leaves the more bestrewed the ground,
The fuller that the rose hath bloomed above!
Yes, grieve! 'tis nature's —- that is, God's — behest,
If what is nature called is will divine:
Who fain would grieve not cannot know how blest
It is to sorrow, and yet not repine.
