|O’ that my head were a fountain of tears that I could cry forever!
There are no groans deep enough;
No ache echoes the depths of the heart’s anguish.
How deep are the cries of the loss which crucifies Christ afresh!
|He who made them is estranged;
He who loves them is violated in them.
That which is of Him is debased beyond belief!
He dies again in their death; He suffers in their destructions;
|None cares; none carries the heart of Him who loves them!
Yet, His Spirit was given; His presence bequeathed, here.
His Spirit therefore dwells in the unworthy, in the incapable, in us.
So among us, His word has life; His life has flesh for doing.
|Does the world know it; do they hear His voice in us?
Do they see the sign that He said would convince them?
Is His love between us made visible in our behaviour?
There is no–other–way . . .
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