The Coming Year
l CANNOT tell What joys, or griefs, or battles
The coming year will bring,
But this I know, since God His order worketh,
We may be sure of spring;
The thrush’s note, the wind upon the hillside,
The majesty of trees,
The fragrant rose, the glory of the sunset-
At least there will be these.
And what is more, far more——a hand to guide us
O’er pathways still untrod,
The hand of One whose wisdom never faileth—
We may be sure of God.
Ivy Mawby
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