A ballad by Oscar Wilde:

I never saw sad men who looked with such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue we prisoners call the sky,
And at every careless cloud that passed in happy freedom by.

And all the woe that moved him so that gave that bitter cry;
And the wild regrets and bloody sweats, none knew so well as I:
For he who lives more lives than one, more deaths than one must die...

And every human heart that breaks in prison cell or yard,
Is as that broken box that gave its treasure to the Lord,
And filled the unclean leper's house with the scent of costliest nard.

Ah! Happy day they whose hearts can break and peace and pardon win!
How else may man make straight his plan and cleanse his soul from Sin?
How else but through a broken heart may Lord Christ enter in?