The senseless drops can feel no pain, as they
In ceaseless measure strike the barren ground;
But o'er its trodden surface constant play,
Without a pang that there no life is found;
Yet oft the word must fall on stony fields,
And where the weeds have shot their rankness high;
And nought the seed to him who sows it yields,
But bitter tears and the half-uttered sigh;
But these are rife with precious stores of love,
For him who bears them daily in his breast;
For so the Father bids him hence remove,
And so attain His everlasting rest;
For thus He bore with thee when thou wast blind,
And so He bids thee bear wouldst thou his presence find.