the poem beckoned to me…

I was sitting here not really doing anything in particular when I saw in the corner in the last row of my bookshelves the devotional book my mother had used to inspire her when my parents lived overseas. They moved us to Indonesia when I was young, a child of 11-13 years old. Here is the poem:

when the frosts are in the valley

and the mountain tops are gray

and the choicest blooms are blighted;

and the blossoms die away,

a loving father whispers,

  “this all comes from my hand”;

blessed are you if trust

when you cannot understand.

if, after years of toiling,

your wealth should fly away

and leave your hands all empty,

and your hair is turning gray,

remember then your Father

owns all the sea and the land;

blessed are you if you trust

what you cannot understand.


Streams in the Desert, L.B. Cowman; edited by James Reimann


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