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The Mystery

by Amos Russel Wells

One mystery there is, and one alone,
Baffles the human spirit with despair,
Filches the very sunlight from the air.
And wrenches every breath into a groan.
Oh, it is when our loved, our very own,
The good,—so good! the fair,—so dearly fair!
Are doomed some awful agony to bear.
And all their sweet, pure life becomes a moan.
Send us, O God! amid our aching tears
The memory of Thine accepted fate,—
Thy Son, Thy best beloved, torn with spears
Of all our mortal woes disconsolate;
So that our mystery of pain appears
A mystery of love and not of hate.

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