Читать книгу Neghborly Poems and Dialect Sketches - Riley James Whitcomb - Страница 7

O, Thou that doth all things devise

And fashon fer the best,

He'p us who sees with mortul eyes

To overlook the rest.

They's times, of course, we grope in doubt,

And in afflictions sore;

So knock the louder, Lord, without,

And we'll unlock the door.

Make us to feel, when times looks bad

And tears in pitty melts,

Thou wast the only he'p we had

When they was nothin' else.

Death comes alike to ev'ry man

That ever was borned on earth;

Then let us do the best we can

To live fer all life's wurth.

Ef storms and tempusts dred to see

Makes black the heavens ore,

They done the same in Galilee

Two thousand years before.

But after all, the golden sun

Poured out its floods on them

That watched and waited fer the One

Then borned in Bethlyham.

Also, the star of holy writ

Made noonday of the night,

Whilse other stars that looked at it

Was envious with delight.

The sages then in wurship bowed,

From ev'ry clime so fare;

O, sinner, think of that glad crowd

That congergated thare!

They was content to fall in ranks

With One that knowed the way

From good old Jurden's stormy banks

Clean up to Jedgmunt Day.

No matter, then, how all is mixed

In our near-sighted eyes,

All things is fer the best, and fixed

Out straight in Paradise.

Then take things as God sends 'em here,

And, ef we live er die,

Be more and more contenteder,

Without a-astin' why.

O, Thou that doth all things devise

And fashon fer the best,

He'p us who sees with mortul eyes

To overlook the rest.