The vale of Baca dreary is and wild,
And yet the path of every heaven-born child;
There will not stand before the throne of God
One who this vale of sorrow has not trod:
Not one who there in vestments white appears,
Whose sleepless couch has not been wet with tears;
No; all have Baca’s vale of weeping known:
Through tribulation each has reached the throne;
Ask those who now their palm of victory wave,
Conquerors through Him, who died the lost to save,
If now they murmur at their former lot,
Or wish they had escaped one mournful spot?
No, you would hear each grateful pilgrim tell,
That vale of grief was blessing’s richest well;
The pools of trouble, filled with heavenly rain,
Turned into myrtles every thorn of pain.
Think it not strange then, pilgrim, neither faint,
Much less indulge in murmuring and complaint,
If what you meet with in your heavenly road
Is hard to bear; since all is planned by God,
His child to train in wisdom’s holy ways,
And form a chosen vessel for His praise;
Now we are slow those ways to understand,
But let us bow beneath His mighty hand,
Sure that His wisdom over all presides,
His power controls, and love unerring guides;
He that adorns the lilies with their bloom,
Gives the frail grass its beauty and perfume,
Watches and feeds the songsters of the air,
Shall He not much more for His children care?
Has not His Word and promise faithful stood,
That “all things work together for their good”?
The hands, that now the pilgrim’s staff must hold
Shall then exchange it for a harp of gold;
The armor doffed, the wedding robe to wear—
No sword or shield or helmet wanted there;
The darkness changed to everlasting light,
No aching heart, no wearied limbs are there;
Our souls shall bask beneath those cloudless skies,
And God’s own hand shall wipe our tear-dimmed eyes;
But for one day such bliss divine to taste
Would make a thousand other days a waste!
Oh, sooner far the lowest place I’d hold
In His fair courts, than palaces of gold;
There would I choose a doorkeeper to be,
Opening for others only; if, for me,
I might look in, and His bright glories see.
Be patient then; with such a rest in view,
Blessed are they who Zion’s ways pursue;
Each faithful pilgrim, through His mighty grace,
Shall there appear and see Him face to face;
He is their Sun, to chase the shades of night,
And cheer their souls with heavenly warmth and light:
“God of all grace,” each day’s march He’ll bestow
The suited grace for all they meet below;
The “God of glory,” when their journey’s done,
Will crown with glory what His grace begun;
Rich in the treasures of eternal love,
His watchful goodness all His people prove;
Through time’s short day and through eternity,
“Blest is the man, O Lord, who trusts in Thee.”
J. G. Deck