Anne Brontë (1819–1849)

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 bidst us now weep through the night

And sorrow through the day.

These weary hours will not be lost,

These days of misery,

These nights of darkness, anguish-tossed,—

Can I but turn to Thee:

With secret labour to sustain

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,

O let me serve Thee now!