And yet thou can'st not know; And yet thou can'st not see; Wisdom and sight are slow In poor humanity. If thou could'st _trust_, poor soul, In him who rules the whole, Thou would'st find peace and rest: Wisdom and sight are well, but trust is best. MY CROSS "O Lord, my God!" I oft have said, "Had I some other cross instead Of this I bear from day to day, 'Twere easier to go on my way. "I do not murmur at its weight; That Thou hast made proportionate To my scant strength; but oh! full sore It presses where it pressed before. "Change for a space, however brief, The wonted burden, that relief May o'er my aching shoulders steal, And the deep bruise have room to heal!" While thus I sadly sighed to-day I heard my gracious Father say, "Can'st thou not trust my love, my child, And to thy cross be reconciled? "I fashioned it thy needs to meet; Nor were thy discipline complete Without that very pain and bruise Which thy weak heart would fain refuse." Ashamed, I answered, "As Thou wilt! I own my faithlessness and guilt; Welcome the weary pain shall be, Since only that is best for me." GOD KNOWETH BEST He took them from me, one by one, The things I set my heart upon; They looked so harmless, fair, and blest; Would they have hurt me? God knows best. He loves me so, he would not wrest Them from me if it were not best. He took them from me, one by one, The friends I set my heart upon. O did they come, they and their love, Between me and my Lord above? Were they as idols in my breast? It may be. God in heaven knows best. I will not say I did not weep, As doth a child that wants to keep The pleasant things in hurtful play His wiser parent takes away; But in this comfort I will rest: He who hath taken knoweth best. THE ONLY SOLACE O Thou who driest the mourner's tear, How dark this world would be If, when deceived and wounded here, We could not fly to thee! The friends who in our sunshine live When winter comes are flown; And he who has but tears to give Must weep those tears alone. But Thou wilt heal that broken heart Which, like the plants that throw Their fragrance from the wounded part, Breathes sweetness out of woe. O who could bear life's stormy doom Did not Thy wing of love Come brightly wafting through the gloom Our peace-branch from above! Then sorrow, touched by Thee, grows bright With more than rapture's ray; As darkness shows us worlds of light We never saw by day. --Thomas Moore. CONSOLATION