  To-day I hate that bitter creed, Whereby the groaning soul is taught That God Almighty finds the need Of pain, ere true salvation's wrought! Dear God, who did create the trees, The scented flowers, the misty view, The uplands' breezy ecstasies, The Ocean's iridescent blue, The arches of the endless sky, The magic of a day in Spring, The down upon a butterfly, The anthem that the skylarks sing. All perfect growing harmonies, Each tuneful sound and beauteous sight, That lifts us from our miseries To raptures of supreme delight, Can I believe that Thou hast willed Each bitter moment I have spent? Whereby in anguish were fulfilled Thy hard decrees of punishment? To-day is June! Since early dawn My heart has felt the sun's caress, I bless the hour that I was born To witness so much loveliness. And I would have a God of love, A tender God, who looks and smiles From some not distant throne above Upon His fair created miles. I know not who has placed the thorns That pierce, on our human brow, But I would pray on these sweet morns. Dear God, Oh! Let it not be Thou. |
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