THE GOD OF COMFORT I have been through the valley of weeping, The valley of sorrow and pain; But the God of all comfort was with me, At hand to uphold and sustain. As the earth needs the clouds and the sunshine Our souls need both sorrow and joy, So He places us oft in the furnace, The dross from the gold to destroy. When He leads us through some valley of trouble His omnipotent hand we can trace; For the trials and sorrows He sends us Are part of His lessons of grace. Oft we shrink from the purging and pruning, Forgetting the husbandman knows That the deeper the cutting and paring The richer the cluster that grows. Well He knows that affliction is needed He has a wise purpose in view; And in the dark valley He whispers, "Hereafter thou shalt know what I do.” As we travel through life's shadowed valley, Fresh springs of His love ever rise, And we learn that our sorrow and losses Are blessings just sent in dis guise. So we’ll follow wherever He leads us. Let the path be dreary or bright, For we’ve proved that our God can give comfort, Our God can give songs in the night.
LEAN HARD ON ME Child of My love, lean hard. And let Me feel the pressure of thy care; I know thy burden, child, I shaped it; Poised it in Mine own hand, made no proportion In its weight to thine unaided strength; For even as I laid it on, I said, "I shall be near, and while he leans on Me, This burden shall be Mine, not his; So shall I keep My child within the circling arms Of My own love. Here lay it down, nor fear To impose it on a shoulder which upholds The government of worlds. Yet clos er come; Thou art not near enough, I would embrace thy care So I might feel My child reposing on My breast. Thou lovest Me? I knew it! Doubt not then; But loving Me, lean hard!” MOTHER, I REMEMBER Mother, when the night winds blow, I remember long ago: Lamp-light falling on your hair, And your children kneeling there. Soft the dress-folds where we knelt, I remember how they felt. Mother, when the night winds cry, I remember something high, Something holy that we knew . . . Kneeling there in front of you. With your hands upon the Book And your tender, trusting look. Mother, though the world be cold, I am warmed by all you've told When you taught us how to pray, I am warmed day after day. Faith you lived, no wind of doubt Has been able to blow out. — Helen Frazee-Bower
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