Yes, of a truth, there shall be hidden wounding.
Strange are the gifts Love sends:
Trample the will of flesh, seek first the kingdom,
Despise all private ends–
Then shalt thou know a bruising and a grieving,
And in the house of friends.
Thy house of friends dealt hardly with Thee, Savior;
Thorns were Thy bitter dower,
Thorns that, when given to us, quickened to budding
Break sudden into flower.
Oh, solemn joy, if I may wear the garland
And watch with Thee one hour.
Only an hour–then treasures of the darkness
Like unto jewels pure,
Shall sparkle forth in light. Tarries the vision?
Wait for it; it is sure.
Oh, blessed then the servant who through wounded
Did still exult, endure.