Tuesday, February 18, 2014


One day when I was very small
I fell against the garden wall;
And smarting with the hurt and pain
I kicked that wall with might and main,
Struck at it with my little fist
And bruised my hand and sprained my wrist.
I screamed with rage as children will,
Who fancy things have done them ill;
With more of anger than of pluck
Again that solid wall I struck,
Resenting what had gone before
I madly hurt myself the more.

When grief has hurt us, as it must,
We cry aloud: "God is unjust!"
We strike at faith, that solid wall
Which shelters and sustains us all,
Not knowing when our hearts are sore
Resentment only hurts us more.
In bitterness no comfort lies,
No tears of sorrow hatred dries;
Who turns upon his God in grief
Finds endless woe in disbelief.
Who cries that faith in God is vain
Condemns himself to greater pain.

(Copyright, 1925, Edgar A. Guest.)

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