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,
My soul knows that its help comes from afar.