O BITTER is the tear that is not shed!
Back to the heart they say it wends unseen;
There nestles as a fountain in its bed,
And ever and anon wells up, all fresh and keen;
And tainting living joys with sorrows dead,
Floods present sweet with bitter that hath been:
Nor aught can heal this Mara of the soul,
Save the sweet Cross of Him who died to make us whole.