If all my days were summer, could I know
The meaning of my Lord’s “made white as snow”?
If all my hours were joyous could I say,
“In His fair land, all tears are wiped away”?
If I were never weary could I keep
Close to my heart, “He gives His loved ones sleep”?
Were no graves mine could life eternal seem
Anything to me, but baseless dream?
My winters, my tears and my weariness,
Even my graves reveal His blessedness.
I call them ills, yet at rare times I see
That all is love which brings my Lord to me.
Warren F. Cook