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Hope.
By W. M. MacKeracher
Oh! why should sorrow wound the heart,
And rob the soul of rest?
Why is misfortune's bitter dart
Allowed to pierce the breast?
We dare not ask; 'tis heaven's decree,
While faring here below,
Man's bark is tossed upon the sea
Of trouble, grief and woe.
But Mercy holdeth forth a light
Upon the waves to shine,
And cheer him in the darkest night, -
The star of Hope divine.
Enabled thus, he looks before,
And sees, Oh! joyful sight!
The waves subside, the storm is o'er,
The sky is clear and bright.
What comfort 'tis when cares annoy
To know they are from One
Whose hand dispenses peace and joy
As well as grief and pain.
Then cherish hope, despondent heart,
With strength renew the fight;
And God will gladness yet impart,
Thy darkness turn to light.
The dreary winter soon is done,
And then - the month of May!
The clouds, which now obscure the sun,
Will soon have passed away.
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