NON NOBIS
Not unto us, O Lord, to tell
Thy purpose in the blast,
When these, that towered beyond us, fell
And we were overpast.
We cannot guess how goodness springs
From the black tempest’s breath,
Nor scan the birth of gentle things
In these red bursts of death.
We only know—from good and great
Nothing save good can flow;
That where the cedar crashed so straight
No crooked tree shall grow;
That from their ruin a taller pride—
Not for these eyes to see—
May clothe one day the valleyside....
Non nobis, Domine.
C. E. W. B.