Who wings the storm, or whispers “Peace, be still;”
Cradling to rest the mountain wave at will;
Who for our souls his Son a ransom gave,
And guards “his fold” from childhood to the grave.
Confess, proud man, all his known ways are just,
And what thou canst not fathom “learn to trust.”
1827. E. P. K.
IN A SEASON OF BEREAVEMENT.
Bright summer comes, all bloom and flowers,