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.)