Not worthless are the tears,

When pure their fountain-head,

Which human hopes and fears

Compel us oft to shed.

In grief or joy they tell

Far more than words can teach;

Their silence hath a spell

Beyond the power of speech.

In joy, though bright and brief,

Its essence they make known;

And how they soften grief

The mourner's heart will own.

Yet tears there are which fall,

Claiming a holier birth;

Which come not at the call

Of time's brief woe or mirth.

Tears which are shed, alone,

For God's all-pard’ning love;

But to the mourner known,

And Him who dwells above.

Can there be drops more pure,

More precious, holy yet;

Whose record shall endure

’Till time's last sun be set!

Yes! Tears once fill’d His eye,

Beside a mortal's grave,

Who left his throne on high,

The lost to seek and save.

And fresh, from age to age,

Their memory shall be kept;

While man shall bless the page

Which tells that Jesus wept !