When trouble tills our garden with a woe
And rakes to rubbled ruin this earthly life,
It gives us no escape, no place to go,
And never asks permission for the strife.
The hand we’re dealt is never shuffled o’er;
The cards, when black, are still our cards to play.
They fall upon us till the light’s no more,
And in our blackened days we have no say.
Like Job, we’re urged to curse our God and die
For that which came our way without our will.
But greater than the greatest blight or cry,
There is a more important choice still –
Not in the bearing that which we endure,
But if we bear for God, remaining pure.
© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2011.