I BOW MY FOREHEAD TO THE DUST.
I bow my forehead to the dust;
I veil mine eyes for shame
And urge, in trembling self-distrust
A prayer without a claim.
I see the wrong that round me lies;
I feel the guilt within.
I hear with groan and travail-cries
The world confess its sin.
Yet in the maddening maze of things,
And tossed by storm and flood,
To one fixed stake my spirit clings:
I know that God is good.
I dimly guess from blessings known
Of greater out of sight,
And, with the chastened psalmist, own
His judgments too are right.
I know not what the future hath
Of marvel or surprise,
Assured alone that life and death
His mercy underlies.
And if my heart and flesh are weak
To bear an untried pain,
The bruised reed he will not break
But strengthen and sustain.
And so beside the…
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