(The
last words of William McKinley)
“It is God’s way; His will—not ours,—be done!”
Slow syllables,—from which we
backward start,
A soldier-saying from a hero-heart,—
And lesson-laden for us, every one.
What is our way? With roses to o’erstrew
An Eden-garden, where our loved
may rest?
To grow by struggle—wrestle to
be blessed,—
Is God’s hard pathway for His daring few.
What is our will? A fickle, lazy sail,
That veers and swerves in every
passing flaw.
What is God’s will? The enginery
of Law,
That drives right onward, and that must prevail.
“It is God’s way,”—though Calvary be the end,—
The martyr-spirit never shuns
the Cross!
The furnace frees the metal from
the dross,—
The iron melts, that steel may learn to bend!
The Father knows the pathway for the son;
His will is stern, but Love is
overhead,
Content we follow, and are comforted.
“It is God’s way; His will—not ours,—be done!”
