Poem April 17, 1937 Issue

Our Father

ROSEMARY C. COBHAM

What kind, strong fingers of a father's hand,
Touched with compassion, now could smooth away
The sorry traces of this storm-racked day?
What father's pity now could understand
The shattered dreams a foolish heart had planned—
The mirage hopes, alluring to betray
And lead the wanderer down an unknown way,
Through the dry desert of a weary land?

God understands our every need. Even yet
His hand is near to lift the shame-bowed head,
To wipe away the anguish, the regret
For other things, and stablish hope instead.
Then at his Father's table man is set,
Completely satisfied and comforted.

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