Classic Poem

Children of want and sorrow,
Whose tears like rivers flow,
There is a glad to-morrow,
Which ye shall ere long know.
Faint not beneath your burdens,
Grieve not at thronging cares,
Ofttimes they are the guerdons
Of liberty from snares.
In patience ever groweth
Faith's strong and brilliant wings:
“Your heavenly Father knoweth
Your need of all these things.”

He knows that riches harden
The God-forgetting heart,
So plucks from out your garden
The plants which joy impart.
On heaven's hillsides glorious,
Transplanted, they shall bloom,
Till, o'er your sins victorious,
You reach that blessed home.
Salvation's trumpet bloweth:
Hark! while the message rings,—
“Your heavenly Father knoweth
Your need of all these things.”

Though marred your hopes so cherished,
Though crossed your worldly schemes,
And on their stems have perished
Your chosen plant's racemes;
Though dark these providences,
And heavy seems each cross,—
Towards heaven the soul advances
By gain once counted loss.
Grief oft for heaven soweth,
And Death the bright sheaves brings:
“Your heavenly Father knoweth
Your need of all these things.”

Each Marah is appointed;
There's no redundant thorn:
He spared not his Anointed,
And we must follow on.
But, oh, there's consolation!
Each fearful furnace-fire,
Each hour of desolation,
Lifts the tried spirit higher,
On, toward where Life's stream floweth.
Fold not your weary wings!
“Your heavenly Father knoweth
Your need of all these things.”