Among the pitfalls and the rocks;
Came not the night with folded flocks?
The white light scorches and the plain
Stretches before us, parched with the heat;
But, by and by, the fierce beams wane;
And lo! the nightfall, cool and sweet,
With dews to bathe our aching feet!
For he remembereth our frame!
Even for this I render praise.
O, tender Master, slow to blame