[Written for the Sentinel]

Love, the Healer

Where soil is barren, cold, and poor,And nothing seems to grow,Here is the place for us to striveSome seeds of love to sow.

When pain to mortal sense seems true,And worry, care, and fearThe truth are hiding by their mist,'Tis love will dry the tear.

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Signs of the Times
April 26, 1930
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