Classic Poem

Why did He choose a garden fair,
When bowed in agony?
Would not a hillside, barren, cold,
Be more in harmony?

Ah no! The gracious Lord of love
Would have His children know
That in their darkest hours of pain,
The fragrant flowers grow—

That there, amid the sharpest thorns,
The rarest roses bloom,
And there the richness of His grace
Dispels the deepest gloom.

His anguished heart was torn with pain;
None else could suffer so,
Yet in our deepest agony
This much our hearts can know—

That in our anguish and our pain
The victory can be won
If we will say as He once said:
“Thy will, Thy will be done.”

What though tomorrow has its cross?
Naught can His love e'er dim;
From out the depths of deepest woe
We gladly walk with Him.

Then to the garden let us go—
The garden of God's will,
Content to know, where'er He leads
That we can trust Him still.