Henry Cust (1861–1917)

NOT unto us, O Lord,

Not unto us the rapture of the day,

The peace of night, or love’s divine surprise,

High heart, high speech, high deeds ’mid honouring eyes;

For at Thy word

All these are taken away.

Not unto us, O Lord:

To us thou givest the scorn, the scourge, the scar,

The ache of life, the loneliness of death,

The insufferable sufficiency of breath;

And with Thy sword

Thou piercest very far.

Not unto us, O Lord:

Nay, Lord, but unto her be all things given—

May light and life and earth and sky be blasted—

But let not all that wealth of love be wasted:

Let Hell afford

The pavement of her Heaven!