By JH Sayyar
O gentle heart, where mercy builds her throne,
In every pulse doth bloom a softer grace,
More kind than spring winds well-blown,
And heaven itself is mirrored in thy face.
Thy tender heart, a lamp in darkest night,
Doth burn with love that warms my soul,
A hush of peace, a hush of silver light,
That makes the shattered weary spirit whole.
No bitter word can mar thy sacred tone,
No anger dwells where thou plants thy care;
Each tear thou weep redeems not thee alone,
But heals the wounds all can hardly bear.
O dear lady, in thy breast the angels rest,
For God hath made thy heart His gentlest nest.
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