1 O, dark is the wearisome way,
And many the griefs that we meet,
How often the clouds hide the day,
How often the thorns wound our feet,
And Hope hides the light of her face;
We seek for her smiling in vain,
Forgetting the promise of grace,
We murmur at toil and at pain.

2 And sometimes the angel of Death,
Who near us doth always abide,
Will silence forever the breath,
Of loved ones who walk by our side.
We take up our wearisome cross,
With grief that no words can express;
But still in the anguish of loss,
Remaineth a power to bless.

3 The voices of angels we hear;
They say to each desolate soul,
Go on, till the light shall appear,
And glory shall over you roll,
For, here there are sorrows and pains,
And here there is darkness and gloom;
But there precious blessings remain,
And there is your Heavenly home.