O thou who driest the mourner’s tear,

How dark this world would be,

If, when deceived and wounded here,

We could not fly to thee.

2 But thou wilt heal the broken heart,

Which, like the plants that throw

Their fragrance from the wounded part,

Breathes sweetness out of woe.

3 When joy no longer soothes or cheers,

And e’en the hope that threw

A moment’s sparkle o’er our tears

Is dimmed and vanished too;

4 O, who would bear life’s stormy doom,

Did not thy wing of love

Come brightly wafting through the gloom,

Our peace-branch from above?

5 Then sorrow, touched by thee, grows bright

With more than rapture’s ray;

The darkness shows us worlds of light

We never saw by day.