The Master tarrieth long; –
Thou wouldst away;
Yet sing thy midnight song,
'Twill soon be day.
By sorrows keen and deep
He moldeth thee ;
His own right hand shall keep
And comfort thee.

Take heart! A little while,
This pattern strange,
Called life, beneath His smile
And hand, shall change;
And thou shalt plainly see
How, through the years,
He gilded with His love
Thy griefs and tears.

He weaves thy tears and pain
With threads of gold :
The glorious web and chain
Thou shalt behold :
And what to thee doth seem,
Without His face,
But like a troubled dream,
Is but His grace.

These shadows will give place
To substance soon ;
The glory of His face
Surpassing noon.
Then set thy wings for flight;
Thou wouldst away:
The darker grows the night,
The nearer day.

H. McD.
"WHEN IT SHALL BE WELL WITH THEE."