Wednesday, April 20, 2011


by Edmund Leamy

Breathes there a man who claimeth not
One lonely spot
His own Gethsemane,
Whither with his inmost pain
He fain
Would weary plod,
Find the surcease that is known
In wind a-moan
And sobbing sea,
Cry his sorrow hid of men,
And then —
Touch hands with God.

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