E'en in mid-harvest, while the jocund swain Pluck'd from the brittle stalk the golden grain, Oft have I seen the war of winds contend, And prone on earth th' infuriate storm descend, Waste far and wide, and by the roots uptorn, The heavy harvest sweep through ether borne, As the light straw and rapid stubble fly In dark'ning whirlwinds round the wintry sky.
I cannot speak In happy tones; the tear drops on my cheek Show I am sad; But I can speak Of grace to suffer with submission meek, Until made glad. I cannot feel That all is well, when dark'ning clouds conceal The shining sun; But then I know God lives and loves; and say, since it is so, "Thy will be done."
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