One, helpless, in great suffering lay,
Bound by disease and grievous pain.
It was a warm, dark April day,
And hour by hour gushed forth the notes
Poured forth in rapture from the throats
Of robins singing in the rain.
And one came in whose voice was low,
Whose touch was tender; whose clear eyes
Seemed with compassionate love to glow.
She spoke the words that were to save;
She bound the wounds, sweet balm she gave;
And, lo, she bade the sufferer rise.
And of that day does mem'ry bring
Nor gloom, nor dread, nor thought of pain,
But evermore the robins sing.
Within the heart, though years take flight,
Thrills on, thrills on, that pure delight
Of robins singing in the rain.
Banished all suffering, fears malign,
Rich joy outpoured in endless song;
Such is thy healing, Love divine!
