by John Oxenham
He writes in characters too grand
For our short sight to understand;
We catch but broken strokes, and try
To fathom all the mystery
Of withered hopes, of deaths, of life,
The endless war, the useless strife–
But there, with larger, clearer sight,
We shall see this —
His way was right.
I memorized this poem as a college freshman. Now, with God’s “broken strokes” undecipherable and ever-changing before me, I pray for grace to trust and submit to His writing, which in the end – I know by faith – will make sense; than scribble my own lines which, at the moment and in my eyes, could make sense, but in the light of eternity would be gibberish.