The Winnowing
Lord, Thou hast stricken us, smitten us sore,
Winnowed us fine on the dread threshing-floor.
“Had I not reason?—far you had strayed,
Vain was My calling, you would not be stayed.”
Low in the dust, Lord, our hearts now are bowed,
Roughly Thy share through our boasting has ploughed.
“So as My ploughing prepares for the seed,
So shall the harvest our best hopes exceed.”
Lord, we have lost of our dearest and best,
Flung to the void and cast out to the waste.
“Nay then, not one of them fell from My hand,
Here at My side in their glory they stand.”
How shall we start, Lord, to build life again,
Fairer and sweeter, and freed from its pain?
“Build ye in Me and your building shall be
Builded for Time and Eternity.”
TUNE—Theodora.
“Rest of the weary, joy of the sad.”
