Send Sorrow away, For Sorrow is dressed in grey, And her eyes are dim With a weary rim. Send Sorrow away. Send Sorrow away. Maid of the sombre sway, Breathing woe In a murmur low, And her lips are pale And her body frail. Send Sorrow away. Send Sorrow away, Foe of the dancing day. Oh! her cheeks fall in, And her hands are thin, But her grip is fast On the changeless past; And they sere and clutch The soul they touch. Send Sorrow away. Send Sorrow away, For she haunts me night and day. And Sorrow is dressed in grey, Yes, Sorrow is dressed in grey. And she looks so old, So drawn, so cold-- Send Sorrow away. Alas! So softly Time trod with me, that I lost His footsteps pacing mine. I stayed the while To wrest the luscious fruits from love and life; He strode on pauselessly, with thin cold smile. So surely Time trod with me; marred my bloom, Stole all my roses, spread his cobwebs grey, Wrung all my tresses in his silvering hand; So stealthily he lured my youth away I only learned that I was old--to-day. I could have borne it bravely, this I know, Had not the lips of children told me so. A Sacrament Tears!--And I brought them to the Lord, and said: "What are these crystal globes by nations shed? What is the crimson flood that stains the land? Where is Thy peace, and where Thy guiding hand? Why are those thousands daily sacrificed? Where is Thy might, and where the love of Christ?" And from the heavens methought I heard a voice-- "Oh son of earth, I bid thee still rejoice! Those crystal tears by men and nations shed Water My harvest, sanctify My dead. That crimson flood which stains the hapless earth Is but the prelude to a nobler birth. Those thousands, who for home have gladly died, Sleep in the hope of Jesus crucified. Flesh, Blood, and Water, Little Child of Mine, Veil in their depths a Mystery divine." I bowed my head, and prayed for faith to see The inner visions of Calamity! The Love-shed Tear Knocked a man at the shining Gate, Hard and bad and proud and old! Deep in years--for his call was late. The Gate was shut, and he had to wait, And he leaned awhile on his bag of gold. Roll'd the Heavenly portals back, Guarded close by a flaming sword! The old man opened out his sack, Saint Peter searched the sordid pack, "Is this thy passport to the Lord?" Saint Peter sighed, ill-gotten greed Was all therein to offer God, He vainly sought one kindly deed, One gentle word to those in need, One little step in mercy trod. "And is this all?" Saint Peter said, "This fruitless hoard of worthless sin, This earthly gold, which weighs like lead? Oh, wretched man! thy soul is _dead_! Thou mayst--thou canst not enter in!