In the throes of thine tormenting absence,
Mine heart, forsaken, salvation cries,
Stranded in the main, against wicked skies.
Tumultuous and tiring, the qualm in my sense,
Is worse than the fall from heavenly chasm.
So deep and dark. And my daunted spirit,
A meek lamb, in hollow blasphemy doth sit
Sulking and sundering every phantasm.
But hark! The faint murmur and patience prevail.
And let not the sickle of corruption avail
Thy shadow. The Master needs not lost soul,
Brethren. So His children, whether rise or fall,
He guides through this eternal help:
“What seek’st thou, if not thine real self?”
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