  F Father, whose tenderness has wrapped me round In a great need,—to what shall I compare Strength thou hast sent in answer to my prayer? Not to the help some falling vine has found, That trailing listless on the frozen ground Clings suddenly to some high trellis there, Lifting itself once more into the air With timid tendrils on the lattice wound. Rather to help the drooping plant has won, That weary with the beating of the rains Feels quickening in its own responsive veins The sudden shining of a distant sun. When from within the strength and gladness are, |
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