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“THRICE bless'd are they, who feel their loneliness; To whom nor voice of friends nor pleasant scene Brings aught on which the sadden'd heart can lean; Yea, the rich earth, garb'd in her daintiest dress Of light and joy, doth but the more oppress, Claiming responsive smiles and rapture high; Till, sick at heart, beyond the veil they fly, Seeking His Presence, who alone can bless. Such, in strange days, the weapons of Heaven's grace; When, passing o'er the high-born Hebrew line, He moulds the vessel of His vast design; Fatherless, homeless, reft of age and place, Sever'd from earth, and careless of its wreck, Born through long woe His rare Melchizedek.” — John Henry Newman
THRICE bless'd are they, who feel their loneliness;
To whom nor voice of friends nor pleasant scene
Brings aught on which the sadden'd heart can
lean;
Yea, the rich earth, garb'd in her daintiest dress
Of light and joy, doth but the more oppress,
Claiming responsive smiles and rapture high;
Till, sick at heart, beyond the veil they fly,
Seeking His Presence, who alone can bless.
Such, in strange days, the weapons of Heaven's
grace;
When, passing o'er the high-born Hebrew line,
He moulds the vessel of His vast design;
Fatherless, homeless, reft of age and place,
Sever'd from earth, and careless of its wreck,
Born through long woe His rare Melchizedek.