Poems (Follen)/The Ministry of Pain
THE MINISTRY OF PAIN.
Cease, my complaining spirit, cease; Know 'tis a Father's hand you feel;It leads you to the realms of peace; It kindly only wounds to heal.
My Father, what a holy joy Bursts on the sad, desponding mind, To say when fiercest ills annoy, I know my Father still is kind.
This bids each trembling fear be still,Checks every murmur, every sigh: Patience then waits his sovereign will,Rejoiced to live—resigned to die.
O blessed ministry of pain,To teach the soul its real worth; To lead it to that source again, From whence it first derived its birth.