Poem December 14, 1935 Issue

Unwinding the Snarls

EDITH SHAW BROWN

A little child at mother's knee
Plies woolen strands and needles bright.
Small, eager hands strive earnestly
To fashion every stitch aright.

But soon perplexing knots appear
Which vex and hinder progress' flow.
Impatient fingers pull and tear,
While ever worse the tangles grow.

How surely then in wiser hands
The roughest places are made plain!
How easy now the task's demands, How wonderful the lesson's gain!

Thus, God, we bring our snarls to Thee;
Though human sense and stubborn will
Oft clamor loud for mastery,
We hear alone Love's "Peace, be still."

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