The curtains close on yet another room
The heart’s stage sullied in further gloom
Why we wrestle, and furrow our brows
Where pardon is present and liberty avowed

The clang of our fetters, our despondent consolation
For mercy’s too costly; an offense’s remuneration
Foolish we are, to sample such gall
And waste in our chamber the joys of our call

Speak to me of the profit of holding a grievance,
Or calculating the suffering of another’s contrivance?
My heart has dabbled in all such malevolence
And has concluded thus, that its rest is benevolence

An easier road, you will surely find
For the heart, by nature, is bent in decline
And deceit, her capricious counterpart
Will steal all the riches that endurance imparts

So, pilgrim, I speak to my heart and yours,
To bind up the burden we choose to endure
And seek for the One with whom we have appeal
And trust Him for the grace to love beyond what we feel