TROUBLES THAT DO NOT COME.
By Lettie S. Bigelow
Of the hard and weary loads
’Neath which we bend and fall,
The troubles that do not come
Are the heaviest ones of all. For grief that cuts like a knife
There’s oil of comfort and cure,
And the Hand which binds the weight
Brings strength and grace to endure. But to phantoms of pain and woe
The lips of pity are dumb,
And there’s never oil or wine
For troubles that do not come. There’s a song to lighten the toil,
And a staff for climbing the height,
But never an alpenstock
For the hills that are out of sight. There are bitter herbs enough
In the brimming cup of to-day,
Without the sprig of rue
From to-morrow’s unknown way. Then take the meal that is spread,
And go with a song on thy way,
And let not the morrow shade
The sunshine and joy of to-day. — Lettie S. Bigelow, in Zion’s Herald.