Wells of Baca

O blessed solace! 'Tis a Father's rod —

No rod of wrath — but of unchanging love,

No stroke inflicted which He could have spared!

Infinite wisdom has with love combined

To make the blow accomplish and no more —

Its salutary end. A Father's rod;

The thought suppresses every falling tear

Checks every murmur — mitigates each pang.

Unerring Parent! — Mourner! can you doubt

His faithfulness? Then look at Calvary!

Behold that bleeding, dying Lamb of God!

'Twas love for thee that sent Him from His throne,

And nailed Him there! And dare we entertain

The thought, that He whose nature and whose name

Is Love, could send us one superfluous pang,

Impose a needless burden, or permit

The thorn to pierce He knew would pierce in vain.

That cross becomes the blessed guarantee

That all is needed! Mercy infinite

Prevents one drop from mingling in The cup

Which could have been withheld. Thou God of love!

Vouchsafe us grace to bow beneath Thy rod;

And breathe — although it be through burning tears,

And half-choked utterances — "Thy will be done." (Extracted.)