Poem April 18, 1901 Issue

From Psalm Eighteenth

BY MARY B. DODGE.

Above the flooding of the waves
God is my great, high tower:
My rock, my fortress and defence,
In every tempted hour.
I plead my cause, and presently
With strange, sweet peace he comforts me.

Upon his holy name I call
In darkness of distress;
He hears my voice, nor turns his ear
From simple trustfulness.
His way so very perfect is,
It leadeth mine to turn to his.

With strength he girdeth what is weak;
His gentleness makes great;
And sure deliverance giveth he
To them who watch and wait:
Who patient seek the open door,
The door that closes nevermore.

Ay, verily, is God a Tower
Where floods besiege in vain;
And blest are they who steadfastly
Within that tower remain,
Until the sea recedes, and Light
Proclaims the passing of the Night.

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