“Let me read you a bit of poetry,” said Cousin Mate, opening her book.
“Let me hear, too,” said Jenny King, coming up the path and sitting down on the steps.
“Thy Word, a wondrous guiding star
On pilgrim hearts doth rise,
Leads to their Lord, who dwells afar,
And makes the simple, wise.
“Thy Word, O Lord! like gentle dews
Falls soft on hearts that pine.
Lord, to thy garden ne’er refuse
This heavenly balm of thine.