I hoped, that with the brave and strong,
My portioned task might lie;
To toil amid the busy throng,
With purpose pure and high.
But God has fixed another part,
And He has fixed it well;
I said so with my bleeding heart,
When first the anguish fell.
Thou,
God, hast taken our delight,
Our treasured hope away:
Thou bid'st us now weep through the
And sorrow through the day.
These weary hours will not be lost,
These days of misery,
These nights of darkness, anguish-tost,
Can I but turn to Thee.
With secret labour to
In humble patience every blow;
To gather fortitude from pain,
And hope and holiness from woe.
Thus let me serve Thee from my heart,
Whate'er may be my written fate:
Whether thus early to depart,
Or yet a while to wait.
If Thou shouldst bring me back to life,
More humbled I should be;
More wise—more strengthened for the strife—More apt to lean on Thee.
Should death be standing at the gate,
Thus should I keep my vow:
But,
Lord! whatever be my fate,
Oh, let me serve Thee now!
The last poem written by Anne Bronte.
