Man is like God in miniature,
When he is at his best;
His motives and impulses pure,
His heart and will at rest;
No conflict in himself is felt,
His light no earthly beam,
While love encircles like a belt,
And conscience is supreme.
As thus endowed a creature may
The keenest sufferings feel;
Not such as rack the frame of clay,
Which art of man may heal;
But pain untold at others’ woes,
And deadly blight of sin,
Which right and virtue overthrows,
And blackens all within.
And may not God have suffered much
Ere reached the gory cross?
Did not our woe the God-heart touch?
Did He not feel our loss?
The “Man of Sorrows” we adore,
And own His sufferings real;
But suffered He as God before;
For God can sorrow feel.