A strain upon a lyre harp
sweeps a sound so low
That only those who gather round
Can catch its sweetness flow,
A strain which takes all suffering
A woman’s heart seems torn
A tune of seeming martyrdom
For her son she mourns
A strain of sadness at the tomb
She searches for her dead
An angel pointing to the skies
Which dawns a crimson red
A strain upon twelve tender hearts
Who sit in upper rooms
And still the strain plays out its tune
From sadness of the tomb
A strain upon a sepulchre
A white robed body lay
The saviour rises, then appears
The rock is rolled away
A strain it sweeps his Mother’s heart
With gladness, faith and joy
And plays its tune eternally
For all who will enjoy
The strain is never ending
Through time and space it plays
Every ernest deed and word
It plays throughout our days
Christian Devotions 