I who have sung so loud of God's great power,
I who have loved Him with unswerving love,
Cry vainly now, hour after torturing hour,
And no response comes from those planes above.
I deemed myself a joyous instrument
Finite in form but infinite in scope;
In life's grand orchestra my tones were blent
Ever in strains of gratitude and hope.

Now as a harp all broken and unstrung
Of which the Heavenly Players have grown weary
And carelessly upon the highway flung
Where vagrant winds may sing a miserere,
I lie with all the music in my dumb, . . .
Oh, great Repairer and Attuner, come!