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THE PAIN OF LOVE.
To love Thee, and yet not to think That I can love so much, —
To have Thee with me, Lord! all day, Yet not to feel Thy touch.
If I have served Thee, Lord ! for hire, Hire which Thy beauty showed,
Can I not serve Thee now for naught, And only as my God ?
Thrice blessed be this darkness then,
This deep in which I lie, And blessed be all things that teach
God's dear supremacy! |
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THE PAIN OF LOVE.
Jesus ! why dost Thou love me so ?
What hast Thou seen in me To make my happiness so great,
So dear a joy to Thee?
Wert Thou not God, I then might think
Thou hadst no eye to read The badness of that selfish heart,
For which Thine own did bleed. |
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