Sorrow found in Him a hallowed place to dwell, a temple for herself, a shelter simple in design.
Through the years she carved her name upon His face, for He would have the grace to be for her a shrine.
She danced in His solitude. He never once forbade the music she had played. It fell like stain upon His ears.
He would listen as if curious to know what sorrows were foretold; what course His ship would steer.
But, He it was who wrote the song, in whom Sorrow would belong.
And part of every melody would remind her that someday He would leave her and go Home.
He would go out early before the night had given way to the dawn.
He would pray, while all around Him heaven slept.
The mountains were so moved to see Him on the hills
They stood perfectly still to watch the vigil that He kept.
Done with quietness, He opened wide His arms.
He called to those who morn...my sorrow will heal all your wounds.
Children also drawn to the joy He had to give heard laughter on His lips,
The spark of life in the dark of tombs!.
But, earth in all her parts would long to hear again the voice of the One
For whom Sorrow wrote melodies to tell this earth that someday He would leave her
And go Home free! And Sorrow would go Home free.