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.
