Last Words
by Anne Brontë (1820-1849)

A dreadful darkness closes in
               On my bewildered mind;
O let me suffer and not sin,
               Be tortured yet resigned.

Through all this world of whelming mist
               Still let me look to Thee,
And give me courage to resist
               The Tempter till he flee.

Weary I am — O give me strength
               And leave me not to faint;
Say Thou wilt comfort me at length
               And pity my complaint.

I’ve begged to serve Thee heart and soul,
               To sacrifice to Thee
No niggard portion, but the whole
               Of my identity.

I hoped amid the brave and strong
               My portioned task might lie,
To toil amid the labouring throng
               With purpose pure and high.

But Thou hast fixed another part,
               And Thou hast fixed it well;
I said so with my breaking heart
               When first the anguish fell.

For Thou hast taken my delight
               And hope of life away,
And bid me watch the painful night
               And wait the weary day.

The hope and the delight were Thine;
               I bless Thee for their loan;
I gave Thee while I deemed them mine
               Too little thanks, I own.

Shall I with joy Thy blessings share
               And not endure their loss?
Or hope the martyr’s crown to wear
               And cast away the cross?

These weary hours will not be lost,
               These days of passive misery,
These nights of darkness anguish tost
               If I can fix my heart on Thee.

Weak and weary though I lie,
               Crushed with sorrow, worn with pain,
Still I may lift to Heaven mine eyes
               And strive and labour not in vain,

That inward strife against the sins
               That ever wait on suffering;
To watch and strike where first begins
               Each ill that would corruption bring,

That secret labour to sustain
               With humble patience every blow,
To gather fortitude from pain
               And hope and holiness from woe.

Thus let me serve Thee from my heart
               Whatever be my written fate,
Whether thus early to depart
               Or yet awhile to wait.

If Thou shouldst bring me back to life
               More humbled I should be;
More wise, more strengthened for the strife,
               More apt to lean on Thee.

Should Death be standing at the gate
               Thus should I keep my vow;
But, Lord, whate’er my future fate
               So let me serve Thee now.

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