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Posts Tagged ‘woe’

O Love Divine, that stooped to share
Our sharpest pang, our bitterest tear,
On Thee we cast each earth-born care,
We smile at pain while Thou art near!

Though long the weary way we tread,
And sorrow crown each lingering year,
No path we shun, no darkness dread,
Our hearts still whispering, Thou art near! 

When drooping pleasure turns to grief,
And trembling faith is changed to fear,
The murmuring wind, the quivering leaf,
Shall softly tell us, Thou art near! 

On Thee we fling our burdening woe,
O Love Divine, forever dear,
Content to suffer while we know,
Living and dying, Thou art near!

 

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SONY DSC

The way out
Of a dark hole’s oft
A way up.

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photo by Javier Gonzalezat
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/moyLDa8/Mysterious+stairs

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* The haiku I write are lines of 3-5-3 syllables instead of 5-7-5.

See Haiku article here for explanation, if needed: https://thebardonthehill.wordpress.com/2011/08/08/haiku/

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.

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O heart of mine, we shouldn’t
Worry so!
What we’ve missed of calm we couldn’t
Have you know!
What we’ve met of stormy pain
And of sorrow’s driving rain,
We can better meet again,
If it blow!

We have erred in that dark hour
We have known,
When our tears fell with the shower,
All alone! –
Were not shine and shower blent
As the gracious Master meant? –
Let us temper our content
With His own.

For, we know not every morrow
Can be sad;
So, forgetting all the sorrow
We have had,
Let us fold away our fears,
And put by our foolish tears,
And through all the coming years
Just be glad.

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……………London

I wander thro’ each charter’d street,
Near where the charter’d Thames does flow
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every Man,
In every Infant’s cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forg’d manacles I hear.

How the chimney-sweeper’s cry
Every black’ning church appals’
And the hapless soldier’s sigh
Runs in blood down palace walls.

But most thro’ midnight streets I hear
How the youthful harlot’s curse
Blasts the new-born infant’s tear,
And blights with plagues the marriage hearse.

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When trouble tills our garden with a woe
And rakes to rubbled ruin this earthly life,
It gives us no escape, no place to go,
And never asks permission for the strife.

The hand we’re dealt is never shuffled o’er;
The cards, when black, are still our cards to play.
They fall upon us till the light’s no more,
And in our blackened days we have no say.

Like Job, we’re urged to curse our God and die
For that which came our way without our will.
But greater than the greatest blight or cry,
There is a more important choice still –

Not in the bearing that which we endure,
But if we bear for God, remaining pure.

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2011.

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