“The road is too rough,” I said;
“It is uphill all the way;
No flowers, but thorns instead;
And the skies over head are grey.”
One took my hand at the entrance dim,
Sweet is the road that I walk with him.
“The cross is too great,” I cried—
“More than the back can bear,
So rough and heavy and wide,
And nobody by to care.”
One stooped softly & touched my hand:
I know. I care. And I understand.”
Then why do we fret and sigh;
Cross-bearers all we go:
But the road ends by-and-by
In the dearest place we know,
And every step in the journey we
May take in the Lord’s own company.
Walking in the midst of the fire.
@ Streams in the Desert
by Mrs. Charles E. Cowman