The doubting grope to God with footsteps slow,
The path is stony, and the thistles grow.
With bleeding feet they stumble as they go,
And longing cry, O Father, help us know!
A bird is singing sweetly overhead;
A blossom nestles in its dewy bed;
A hungering heart with living bread is fed;
A child's pure faith that asks but to be led.
A sunrise rolling back the dismal night:
A mountain-peak in glimmering robes of light;
A crystal stream amid the fields of white;
A truth revealed, a fancied wrong set right.
A loving handclasp for a brother weak:
A healing word whene'er Love bids us speak;
A still small voice that bids us, patient, seek
God's mercy-seat with upward longings, meek.
And now the door to God is open wide!
No footsore pilgrim e'er will be denied:
But, cleansed from stain, with joy may step inside,
Where, if he will, he may for aye abide.
