by Mary Baker Eddy (1821-1910)
It matters not what be thy lot,
So Love doth guide;
For storm or shine, pure peace is thine,
And of these stones, or tyrants’ thrones,
God able is
To raise up seed—in thought and deed—
To faithful His.
Aye, darkling sense, arise, go hence!
Our God is good.
False fears are foes—truth tatters those,
Love looseth thee, and lifteth me,
Ayont hate’s thrall:
There Life is light, and wisdom might,
And God is All.
The centuries break, the earth-bound wake,
Who doth His will—His likeness still—