When the frosts are in the valley,
And the mountain tops are grey,
And the choicest buds are blighted,
And the blossoms die away,
A loving Father whispers,
"This cometh from my hand";
Blessed are ye if ye trust
Where ye cannot understand.
If, after years of toiling,
Your wealth should fly away
And leave your hands all empty,
And your locks are turning grey
Remember then your Father
Owns all the sea and land;
Blessed are ye if ye trust
Where ye cannot understand.
Selected
Taken from Streams in the Desert
October 24th
And the mountain tops are grey,
And the choicest buds are blighted,
And the blossoms die away,
A loving Father whispers,
"This cometh from my hand";
Blessed are ye if ye trust
Where ye cannot understand.
If, after years of toiling,
Your wealth should fly away
And leave your hands all empty,
And your locks are turning grey
Remember then your Father
Owns all the sea and land;
Blessed are ye if ye trust
Where ye cannot understand.
Selected
Taken from Streams in the Desert
October 24th
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