We count them happy who have richly known
The sweets of life, the sunshine on the hills,
The mosses in the valley, love that fills
The heart with tears as fragrant as thine own,
O tender moonlight lily, over-blown,
When the inevitable season wills,
By gentle winds beside thy native rills--
We count them happy, yet not these alone.
There is a Crown of Thorns, Way of the Cross,
Consuming Fire that burns the spirit pure.
By luster of the gold set free from dross,
By light of heaven seen best through earth's obscure,
By the exceeding gain that waits on loss--
Behold, we count them happy who endure.