Winds

W. EDSON SMITH

For thou hast been a strength to the poor, a strength to the needy in his distress, a refuge from the storm, a shadow from the heat, when the blast of the terrible ones is as a storm against the wall.—Isaiah 25:4.

The blast of the terrible ones may come
as a storm against the wall!
What of that? For our God is a God of calm:
I have harked to a pine cone's fall
And missed never a word of that still, small voice
Which told me the way to go;
I have heard His whisper ride down the gales
of summer—of blizzard snow.

The blast of the terribel ones is strong;
yet I know where the butterflies drift—
At top of the world—where a rough young wind
riots up through a Titan rift.
Purple and bronze and golden and black,
fragile as blossoms of spring,
And they join in the play of the mountain day
with never a broken wing.

Is the blast of the terrible ones so strong?
Do you crouch in a place of fear
While trees of righteousness bend afar
and the rocks are breaking near?
There's a king to crown and a prophet to make—
God's man at the last great test;
And a river to smite, ere you higher rise
by the burning heart in your breast.

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