MYSTERIES.
“It might have been.” We say it oft,
With aching heart, with streaming eyes;
We grope with eager, outstretched hands
After another’s slighted prize.
We call a life a wasted life.
O mourning souls! be not too sure.
Out of great darkness may come light,
And, after evil, hearts grow pure.
God only knows. We leave to him
The things that are not what we would,
And trust that in his own good time
He will do that which he sees good.
His will be done. The quivering lips
Must say it, though with bitter tears.
His will! It is enough, enough
To hush our murmurs, soothe our fears.
He overrules all pain and sin,
Makes dire disgrace work out his word.
Poor souls, bow down before his might
And trust all myst’ries with the Lord.