Is. xxxv. 10
There is a balm for
every pain,
A
medicine for all sorrow;
The eye turned
backward to the Cross,
And
forward to the morrow.
The morrow of the
glory and the psalm,
When
He shall come;
The morrow of the
harping and the palm,
The
welcome home.
Meantime in His
beloved hands our ways,
And
on His Heart the wandering heart at rest;
And comfort for the
weary one who lays
His
head upon His Breast.
G. T. S.
