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THANKSGIVING, 1863.
We do not weakly fear
Beneath the roughest blast of Winter's breath,
Nor shrink before his icy calm of death
When all is dark and sere;
Beneath the roughest blast of Winter's breath,
Nor shrink before his icy calm of death
When all is dark and sere;
We know he holds the Spring;
Till flinging back its robe of ice and showers
The sunshine laughs on bees and buds and flowers,
And bids its wild birds sing.
Till flinging back its robe of ice and showers
The sunshine laughs on bees and buds and flowers,
And bids its wild birds sing.
Yet do our spirits faint,
When, rolling on the blood-stained cloud of war,
We catch the shadow of the strife afar,
And smell the battle taint,—
When, rolling on the blood-stained cloud of war,
We catch the shadow of the strife afar,
And smell the battle taint,—
Forgetting, in our pain,
The Lord of Hosts, who strikes from scenes like these
The grandest chords of human destinies,
And makes all bright again!
The Lord of Hosts, who strikes from scenes like these
The grandest chords of human destinies,
And makes all bright again!
Teach us O Lord! to see
With the same faith that laughs the clouds to scorn,
With the same faith that laughs the clouds to scorn,
