Thou knowest them that trust in Thee!
What precious words, O Lord, are these!
Here let Thy suffering children flee,
When struggling mid life's mysteries!
For to our childish minds, Thy will
Looks ofttimes hard, and passing strange;
Loving, we doubt and fear Thee still,
And long Thy wondrous ways to change.
Not thus we cry, would we assail
That saintly soul with blow on blow;
Not thus should Sorrow, stern and pale,
Put forth her hand and lay him low.
What needs he, Lord, of pain and smart?
To Thee is he not consecrate?
His joy, his hope, his all, Thou art,
Ever on Thee he loves to wait.
Ah, dearest Lord, Thou knowest best!
Thou knowest them that trust in Thee!
Blessed the soul, yea, doubly blest,
When Thou dost try its constancy.
Upon the soft and crumbling stone,
The sculptor spends a passing hour;
He strikes immortal blows alone
When chiselled marble feels his power.
And when the ore is rich and rare
The miner strikes and strikes again;
Labor and toil he need not spare,
He never can exhaust the vein.
Thou knowest, Lord, a stone to choose-
Worthy the labor of Thy hand;
Thou fearest not the tool to use
That gives it shape at Thy command.
Thou knowest many a hidden mine
Where Thou canst enter at Thy will;
Treasures of faith therein are thine,
Worthy of e'en the Master's skill.
Ah, Lord! we will not stay Thy hand
With folly's questions, folly's fears;
Thy ways we cannot understand-
Forgive our weakness and our tears.
Move on in Thy mysterious way,
We'll stand aside Thy work to see;
Faithful the work, and blessed they,
Who cannot trace, but trust in Thee.
-Elisabeth Payton Prentiss
