WE have not learned the patient ways to keep, We ask the crown but chafe beneath the cross Of its attainment. Till the dregs of dross Be worn away, no golden things we reap; Time loves not haste. The sordid years are deep With hidden treasure. Oh, the sorry loss, Weaving our webs with time's unlovely floss Patterns that make the Master Weaver weep! Ah, well He knew the spirit's patient ways And how to bide His time. Think! thirty years Of waiting ere He entered on the days Of ministry. Why should our future fears Make us so restless? Patience's voice allays All discord in the soul of him who hears.
|
Other Poems of Interest...
|
|