That fitting sadness-
By it I rise,
Not in its’ scorning
Or demise,
Nor add I guilt
To grief and pain-
That sorrow pure
Has not a stain.

Untainted whimpers
And broken cries
Mar not Heaven
Nor surprise-
Is earth not groaning
And sighing too?
My flesh joins in
And shudders through.

Saw I sack cloth
In days of old,
Ripped clothes and ashes
And wailing bold;
There I saw not
God shake His head
When the wailers
Mourned their dead.

There is a place
To lay my cheek,
Shed every tear,
And my fears speak,
And there are arms
To wrap around
My weary frame
That hits the ground.

The sweetest peace
I’ll ever know
Is when my shepherd
Tends my woe.

‘Tis fitting sadness
In it I please
God when He finds
Me on my knees;
No condemnation
There to dread-
But settled love,
Comfort instead.

Psalm 56:8 “You have kept count of my tossings; put my tears in your bottle. Are they not in your book?”