None may escape from its trouble and care;
Miss it in youth, and 'twill come when we're older,
And fit us as close as the garments we wear.
Sorrow comes into our lives uninvited,
Robbing our hearts of their treasures of song;
Lovers grow cold and friendships are slighted,
Yet somehow or other we worry along.
Everyday toil is everyday blessing,
Though poverty's cottage and crust we may share;
Weak is the back on which burdens are pressing,
But stout is the heart that is strengthened by prayer.
Somehow or other the pathway grows brighter,
Just when we mourn there are none to befriend;
Hope in the heart makes the burden seem lighter,
And, somehow or other, we get to the end.