No chance has wrought this ill to me;
'Tis God's sweet will, so let it be;
He seeth what I cannot see.

There is a need be for each pain,
And He will make it one day plain,
That earthly loss is heavenly gain.

Like as a piece of tapestry,
Viewed from the back, appears to be
Nought but threads tangled hopelessly:

But in the front a picture fair
Rewards the worker for his care,
Proving his skill and patience rare.

Thou art the Workman, I the frame.
Lord, for the glory of Thy name,
Perfect Thine image on the same!

M. F.