Poem May 28, 1932 ISSUE

Supply

FRANCES HILDA BRAY

I will not labor for tomorrow's bread,Sufficient for today is my supply;For He who once the hosts of Israel fedWith manna, which fell unseen from the sky,Still feeds His children as He did of yore,From out His infinite, unfailing store.

O mortal sense, so transient and dim,What canst thou know of Love's unchanging care?Hark, how the robin pipes his morning hymnThough all the earth be snowbound, forests bare;He sings his little grace before his eyeHath yet beheld his humble day's supply.

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