What then? why then another pilgrim song,
And then a hush of rest divinely granted;
And then a thirsty stage (ah me! so long)
And then a brook, just where it most is wanted.
What then? The pitching of the evening tent,
And then, perchance, a pillow rough and thorny,
And then some sweet and tender message sent,
To cheer the faint one for tomorrow’s journey.
What then? The wailing of the midnight wind;
A feverish sleep; a heart opprest and aching;
And then a little water-cruse to find
Close by my pillow, ready for my waking.
What then? I am not careful to inquire;
I know there will be tears and fears and sorrow;
And then a loving Savior drawing nigher,
And saying, “I will answer for the morrow.”
What then? For all my sins His pard’ning grace;
For all my wants and woes His lovingkindness;
For darkest shades the shining of God’s face,
And Christ’s own hand to lead me in my blindness.
What then? A shadowy valley, lone and dim,
And then a deep and darkly rolling river;
And then a flood of light — a seraph hymn,
And God’s own smile forever and forever.