A Christmas Faggot/The Physician

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Is life sad for lost love's sake,
     Falls a blight upon thy bliss,
Smiles no more their sunshine make,
     Lips estranged withhold their kiss?
For thy consolation take
     Some such song as this:—

Shine on us, O Morning Star!
     Help our weeping eyes to see;
Never may we deem things are
     What to us they seem to be;

Rise, Thou Dayspring, and afar
     Bid the shadows flee!

Jesu, Thou art swift to bless,
     Strong to comfort, skilled to heal;
Failure is with Thee success,
     Woe the forerunner of weal;
Every stroke is a caress,
     Every crust a meal.

Master, Thou canst raise the dead
     From the grave, the bed, the bier,[1]

Souls astray, forlorn, misled,
     Buffeted by doubt and fear,
Cannot but be comforted
     When Thou drawest near.

Sweeter than the Sunday-bells
     Banishing all week-day cares,
Thine the gracious voice that tells
     What a Father's love prepares.
Leading to salvation's wells
     Up God's altar-stairs.

Lord, Thou art the Master-singer,
     And Thy song is a recall;

Many on life's pathway linger,
     Many by life's wayside fall,
But Thy Heart, the comfort-bringer,
     Is a Home for all!

Tyrol : 1882.