Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish; Earth

“Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish; Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal.” Thus wrote Thomas Moore, the poet of Ireland, whose words were often woven with both lament and hope. In this saying he speaks like a prophet, calling to the weary and broken: bring your grief, your wounds, your despair, for there is no pain on this earth so deep that the eternal cannot soothe it. The truth is ancient and eternal—that beyond the shadows of this world, beyond the suffering of human life, lies a light greater than sorrow and a balm deeper than pain.

The origin of this quote lies in Moore’s hymn, a song born from faith and affliction. Living in a world marred by both personal loss and political strife, Moore knew well the weight of anguish. Yet he also knew the promise of healing that faith offers: that though this earth can wound, Heaven can restore. His words are both poetry and medicine, for they lift the despairing soul from the dust of grief and point it toward the skies.

To understand the power of this truth, consider the story of Florence Nightingale, the “Lady with the Lamp.” In the Crimean War, she walked among the wounded and the dying, surrounded by the cries of anguish and the stench of despair. Yet she carried with her not only healing hands but also faith that even in the valley of death, there was hope. Many soldiers, broken in body and spirit, found comfort in her presence, for she reminded them—sometimes without words—that no earthly sorrow is beyond divine healing. Some were healed in body, others only in soul, but all were reminded that Heaven’s light shone even in the darkest ward.

The ancients, too, perceived this truth in their own ways. In the Psalms, the cry is clear: “The Lord is near to the brokenhearted, and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” In every age, the wise have testified that suffering, though sharp and merciless, is never final. Like the winter that breaks before spring, anguish is met in time with renewal. Moore’s words echo this eternal rhythm: sorrow may rule for a night, but healing dawns with the coming of the light.

What lesson, then, must we take from this? It is that in times of anguish, we must not believe the lie that our pain is beyond comfort. Every broken heart, every wound of spirit, every anguish of loss can find healing if lifted to the eternal. Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal—this is not denial of pain, but a promise that pain is not the end. The wounds of this world are real, but they are not sovereign. There is One greater who brings restoration where all seems lost.

Practically, this means we must learn to bring our sorrows to a higher place. Do not bury your grief in silence, nor drown it in distractions. Speak it, share it, lift it. In prayer, in reflection, in the company of those who carry faith, place your wounds where Heaven’s light can reach them. And when you meet others in despair, do not offer only hollow words, but walk with them, guiding their eyes from the dust of sorrow to the hope of healing.

Thus, remember Moore’s cry: “Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish.” It is a summons, not only to the grieving, but to all of us, for grief visits every home and sorrow touches every life. But let none believe they are forsaken. For though Earth is heavy with suffering, Heaven is greater still. And the soul that entrusts its wounds to that eternal light shall, in time, be healed.