Thus ever in the steps of grief,

Are sown the precious seeds of joy;

Each fount of Marah hath a leaf,

Whose healing balm we may employ.

Then, ’mid life’s fitful, fleeting day,

Look up! the sky is bright above!

Kind voices cheer thee on thy way!

Faint spirit! trust the God of Love!

Miss A. D. Woodbridge.

Heal me, for my flesh is weak;