WHERE YE CANNOT UNDERSTAND

When the frosts are in the valley, And the mountain tops are grey, And the choicest buds are blighted, And the blossoms die away, A loving Father whispers, "This cometh from my hand"; Blessed are ye if ye trust Where ye cannot understand.

If, after years of toiling, Your wealth should fly away And leave your hands all empty, And your locks are turning grey, Remember then your Father Owns all the sea and land; Blessed are ye if ye trust Where ye cannot understand.

AUTHOR UNKNOWN

NOTE: This is courtesy of Kathryn Sousa-Wine in her newsletter With Love From Kathryn. Thanks, Kat!