“Ah! in what rugged and neglected spots,
Passed over in thy culture, often grew,
Unnoticed and unknown to all but me,
The richest fruits — humility and love,
The myrrh of penitent and contrite hearts,
The spices exquisite of trust and praise—
Grief was a winepress forcing the rich juice
Of grapes I watched maturing from the bud;
Bruised, they gave forth the wine of thankful love;
Despised or disappointed, “It is well,”
Was all the sufferer’s utterance. Drank I not
Holy enjoyment in those crushed-down saints?
Milk, too, I tasted — many a tiny cup
Was filled to overflowing for my joy
With thoughts and promises of Holy Writ.
My Father’s word
Earnestly studied, carefully retained,
Believed, beloved, securely trusted in —
Rejoiced my spirit while supporting theirs.”