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THE VIOLENCE OF GRIEF.
0 Merciful Father! the blow that we feared, Though for long it hath threatened and slowly hath
neared, Hath come all at once, hath too suddenly come, And laid waste the fair garden that once was our
We had thought to have borne it far better than this, Nor have grudged to Thy will our poor tribute of
bliss; In our minds we had looked in the face of this woe, And had fixed how to kneel to encounter the blow.
But it seems as if sorrow did more than make haste, And had leaped from the clouds down upon us at
last: And the grief most surprises, looks most like a wrong, Because we have looked for its coming so long.
Nay, we would fain believe that the blow had not
come, That it was but a dream, this dumb, desolate home, That the eyes were not closed, could not possibly
close, In the light of whose love was our only repose.