To My Niece, Mrs. M.A. Caldwell.
By Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow
When days are dark and spirits low,
And hope desponding stands,
What comfort these few words bestow,
"My times are in thy hands."
That thought should every fear allay,
And every cloud dispel;
For we are in the hands of One
Who "doeth all things well."
He clothes the lily of the field,
Paints the gay tulip's leaf,
Hears the young ravens when they cry,
And hastes to their relief.
That little sparrow in thy path,
He noticed when it fell;
Numbereth the hairs upon thy head,
And "doeth all things well."
Then say not when with cares oppressed,
He hath forsaken me;
For had thy father loved thee less,
Would he so chasten thee?
A friend he takes, a Husband too,
A Child, with him to dwell;
Selects the day, the place, the hour -
"He doeth all things well."
His power is heard when thunders roll,
Felt when the cold wind blows,
Seen in the vivid lightning's flash,
And in the blushing rose.
He cares for monarch on his throne,
For hermit in his cell,
For sailor on the mighty deep -
"He doeth all things well."
He raiseth one to high estate,
He brings another low;
This year an empire doth create
The next may overthrow.
What he may plan for you or me,
While here on earth we dwell,
We know not - but of this I'm sure,
"He doeth all things well."
Weston, April 18, 1853.