The burden of my sin was great,
My soul with pain was crushed;
And every voice of promise sweet,
Was for the moment hushed.
Dark clouds come rolling o'er my head,
And quick the night came down;—
O Christ, if Thine was pain like this,
Thorns were a fitting crown.
O night without, and night within,
And doubt, and fear, and dread;
And all my folly and my sin,
Before my eyes were spread.
And not a hand to still my pain,
And not a voice to bless;—
O Christ, did all Thy pain and woe
Give anguish like to this?
A morning comes when night is past,
A calm when storms are spent;
And healing to my wounded soul,
My God in mercy sent.
I saw the Cross upon the hill,
I felt the dark come down;—
The anguish of His wounded soul,
The stinging of the crown.
And as I looked, the morning grew,
The calm of morn was mine;
For ah! the anguish that He bore,
My troubled soul, was thine.