Beside the toilsome way
Lonely and dark, by fruits and flowers unblest,
Which my feet tread sadly, day by day,
Longing in vain for rest.
An angel softly walks,
With pale sweet face, and eye cast meekly down,
The while from withered leaves and flowerless stalks
She weaves my fitting crown.
A sweet and patient grace,
A look of firm endurance, true and tried,
Of suffering meekly borne, rests on her face
So pure — so glorified.
And when my fainting heart
Desponds and murmurs at its adverse fate,
Then quietly the angel’s bright lips part,
Murmuring softly, “Wait!
‘Patience!’ she sweetly saith, —
The Father’s mercies never come too late;
Gird thee with patient strength and trusting faith,
And firm endurance, — wait!”
Angel! behold, I wait,
Wearing the thorny crown through all life’s hours, —
Wait till thy hand shall ope the eternal gate,
And change the thorns to flowers!