John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892)

TO weary hearts, to mourning homes,

God’s meekest Angel gently comes:

No power has he to banish pain,

Or give us back our lost again;

And yet in tenderest love, our dear

And Heavenly Father sends him here.

There ’s quiet in that Angel’s glance,

There ’s rest in his still countenance!

He mocks no grief with idle cheer,

Nor wounds with words the mourner’s ear;

But ills and woes he may not cure

He kindly trains us to endure.

Angel of Patience! sent to calm

Our feverish brows with cooling palm;

To lay the storms of hope and fear,

And reconcile life’s smile and tear;

The throbs of wounded pride to still,

And make our own our Father’s will!

O thou who mournest on thy way,

With longings for the close of day;

He walks with thee, that Angel kind,

And gently whispers, ‘Be resigned:

Bear up, bear on, the end shall tell

The dear Lord ordereth all things well!’