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Treasury of Sacred Song
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CCCXLVII

J. C. Shairp

Who seeketh finds: what shall be his relief

Who hath no power to seek, no heart to pray,

No sense of GOD, but bears as best he may,

A lonely incommunicable grief?

What shall he do? One only thing he knows,

That his life flits a frail uneasy spark

In the great vast of universal dark,

And that the grave may not be all repose.

Be still, sad soul! lift thou no passionate cry,

But spread the desert of thy being bare

To the full searching of the All-seeing eye:

Wait--and through dark misgiving, blank despair,

GOD will come down in pity, and fill the dry

Dead place with light, and life, and vernal air.

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