138
PENIEL.
I have no speech, the rose I plucked is dead,
Faintly is borne to me upon the wind
The dying laughter—I am left behind.
Once I laughed, too, tears now are mine instead!
Gone are the hopes—the dreams on which I fed,
And memories alone remain to bind
My broken days and link me to my kind,
Or ease the desolate ways my feet must tread.
And yet, O God, I know not how to fail!
Within my heart still bums an unquenched fire,
Like Israel of old I must prevail,
Or failing, still reach on to something higher—
They counted Him a failure when He trod
Those slopes of Calvary that led to God!
