The hawthorn hedge that keeps us from intruding,

Looks very fierce and bare,

When stripped by winter, every branch protruding

Its thorns that would wound and tear.

But spring-time comes; and like the rod that budded,

Each twig breaks out in green;

And cushions soft of tender leaves are studded,

Where spines alone were seen.

The sorrows, that to us seem so perplexing,

Are mercies kindly sent

To guard our wayward souls from sadder vexing,

And greater ills prevent.

To save us from the pit, no screen of roses

Would serve for our defense,

The hindrance that completely interposes

Stings back like thorny fence.

At first when smarting from the shock, complaining

Of wounds that freely bleed,

God's hedges of severity us paining,

May seem severe indeed.

But afterwards, God's blessed spring-time cometh,

And bitter murmurs cease;

The sharp severity that pierced us bloometh,

And yields the fruits of peace.

Then let us sing, our guarded way thus wending

Life's hidden snares among,

Of mercy and of judgement sweetly blending;

Earth's sad, but lovely song.

Excerpt from "Streams in the Desert".