Poems (Hale)/"It is well,"

by Mary Whitwell Hale

"IT IS WELL."

It is not when to mortal sight,
Earth's glittering day-dreams seem most bright,
Not when its smiles are all our own,
Are Faith's sublimest triumphs known.
When summer skies, with golden ray,
Illume the flowers that strew our way,
How easy from our joy's full cell,
Gush the sweet accents, "it is well!"

But when, in speechless wo, the heart
Sees one by one its hopes depart,
And earth's most rich and radiant bloom
Lies scentless in its early tomb;
Then through the might of him whose word
The raging waves obedient heard,
More sweetly 'mid the tempest's swell,
Breathes the low whisper, "it is well."

Fond record to the stricken breast!
Saviour! thy sacred name be blest!
Be near us in our hour of need;
Safely our sinking footsteps lead.
Thine eye of pitying love can see
Our depth of secret agony.
Thou who didst once with mortals dwell,
Say to our spirits, "it is well!"

Though the fond heart in anguish mourn
The treasures from its casket torn;
'Mid fadeless flowers and cloudless skies,
They shine as gems of Paradise.
There Hope to full fruition turns,
And Love with beam undying burns;
While, 'mid the harps which round her swell,
Faith sings exulting, "it was well."