Consolation

Life hath its trials—yet methinks ‘twere well
     To pass unmurmuring through its thorny maze,
     And lift the trembling soul in frequent praise
For streams of mercy which for ever swell
And freely flow for us. We do not dwell
     In shadows which the eye can never pierce;
     The foes around us, subtle, qick, and fierce,
Are not omnipotent—and we may quell
     Their numberless legions in the strength of HIM
     Who veils his glory from the seraphim!
This is our field of warfare—yet even here
     There are some spots of verdure, shadowing forth
     Faintly, the glories which are not of earth—
Then let us murmur not, nor faint, nor fear.