Thus, rebellious in your grief, You may falter in belief And your blinded eyes will see No just cause why this should be; But the passing years will show Wisely was it ordered so. Hold your faith and bear the pain-- Questioning your God is vain. None of us has power to know Who should stay and who should go. Hold this everlasting truth-- Heaven has need of lovely youth. Think of this when you are tried: If the wretched only died, Then would death to us be sent Always as a punishment? But the passing from the earth Is more beautiful than birth. _The Choir Boy_ They put his spotless surplice on And tied his flowing tie, And he was fair to look upon As he went singing by. He sang the hymns with gentle grace, That little lad of nine, For there was something in his face Which seemed almost divine. His downcast eye was good to see, His brow was smooth and fair, And no one dreamed that there could be A rascal plotting there; Yet when all heads in prayer were bowed, God's gracious care to beg, The boy next to him cried aloud: "Quit pinching o' my leg!" A pious little child he seemed, An angel born to sing; Beholding him, none ever dreamed He'd do a naughty thing; Yet many a sudden "ouch!" proclaimed That he had smuggled in For mischief-making, unashamed, A most disturbing pin. And yet, I think, from high above, The Father looking down, Knows everything he's thinking of And smiles when mortals frown, For in the spotless surplice white Which is his mother's joy, He knows he's not an angel bright, But just a healthy boy. _The Lay of the Troubled Golfer_ His eye was wild and his face was taut with anger and hate and rage, And the things he muttered were much too strong for the ink of the printed page. I found him there when the dusk came down, in his golf clothes still was he, And his clubs were strewn around his feet as he told his grief to me: "I'd an easy five for a seventy-nine--in sight of the golden goal-- An easy five and I took an eight--an eight on the eighteenth hole! "I've dreamed my dreams of the 'seventy men,' and I've worked year after year, I have vowed I would stand with the chosen few ere the end of my golf career; I've cherished the thought of a seventy score, and the days have come and gone And I've never been close to the golden goal my heart was set upon. But today I stood on the eighteenth tee and counted that score of mine, And my pulses raced with the thrill of joy--I'd a five for a seventy-nine!